


Survivor's Burden

by lalabelle (CaptainScience)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Animal Death (from hunting), Both Dimitri and Claude survive Gronder, Character Death, Claude rescues Dimitri from the battlefield, Dimitri does not make it easy, Extremely Graphic Violence/Death, I mean it's Gronder so it's kind of expected but still, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Please mind the character death tag as it's for graphic side-character death, Silver Snow Route, Wound Treatment/Field Surgery, he then has to keep them both alive in the wilderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29900280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainScience/pseuds/lalabelle
Summary: Claude had plans. Plans to turn the tides, to end this horrific war of attrition that has been going on for far too long. To convince the Faerghus army to work together, to combine their efforts to take down the Adrestian army and end this senseless war once and for all. Then he sees Dimitri.He’s a monster, a mess, and abeastof a man. He’s violent and unpredictable and indiscriminate in his slaughter, working through the field like a man possessed, the strength of the crest of Blaiddyd coursing through his veins. They never stood a chance.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70
Collections: Dimiclaude Big Bang 2020





	Survivor's Burden

Gronder is an unmitigated disaster.

Claude has planned. _Goddess_ has he planned. He’s thought of contingencies for his contingencies. Has calculated every potential outcome he could possibly think of. He’s reconnected with Byleth. Has helped the Church of Seiros make their move by acting as a decoy to reroute Gloucester without causing undue violence within the Alliance borders. He has set everything into motion so perfectly, so _meticulously_ , that he genuinely believes in their success.

And yet he’s failed.

Completely and _utterly_ failed.

The moment he lays eyes on Dimitri across the expansive, foggy field of Gronder, he instantly knows that everything is wrong.

He’s planned for everything he could possibly think of; Hubert’s ploys, Edelgard’s stubbornness, terrain disadvantages and inclement weather alike. He’s meticulously organized his army’s battalions, has triple-checked all weapons and supplies, and has reiterated, over and over again to his most trusted, that it is by his order that they will _immediately_ retreat should it come to that.

They’re never given the chance.

Claude has planned for so, _so_ much, and yet the one thing he absolutely could never have prepared for was the audacity of the Faerghus nobility.

To willingly trot out their mad king as though fit for anything but a trip to the nearest mental facility is the most astounding— _horrifying_ —realization Claude has ever experienced. Dimitri’s so clearly unwell, and yet despite all that, all that matters to Faerghus is that he’s capable of winning a battle through sheer force of psychotic will alone.

He’s a monster, a mess, and a _beast_ of a man. He’s violent and unpredictable and indiscriminate in his slaughter, working through the field like a man possessed, the strength of the crest of Blaiddyd coursing through his veins.

In that dark eye there’s no trace of the shy, proper boy Claude knew at the academy. No sign of the awkward prince who had once snapped a lance clean in half because Claude had said a few flirty, fond words. Who had run right into a wall while hastily turning away after Claude had teasingly asked him for a dance at the ball. Gone is the boy who brought Claude chamomile tea for them to share on a dreary afternoon, who stayed up late at night in the library, eager to hear all about whatever Claude was researching on any given day.

Truly, Claude had thought they could work together. Could win, even.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Dimitri has one, single-minded goal, and goddess protect anyone that stand between him and Edelgard’s head. There’s no place for conversation—for bargaining, for deals. It’s either get out of his way or perish.

With how hyper-focused Dimitri is, Claude loses sight of him in the chaos of the battlefield almost immediately, and is forced to focus purely on managing the battle itself. Or trying to manage it, anyways. He fails miserably.

Lysithea is the first to die.

It’s not at the hands of Dimitri—a blessing, in hindsight—and yet Claude still watches in what feels like slow motion as it happens before him. He tries to notch and fire his arrow in time. Tries to cover her blind spot the moment he realizes she’s horrifically vulnerable to a nearby swordmaster.

He misses the kill shot.

The swordmaster does not.

Claude screams her name, eyes wide in horror, but he can’t even hear himself over the din of battle. He sees her lips move as she chokes on her own blood and crumbles to her knees, but atop his wyvern he can hear nothing beyond the screams, the explosions, the crackle of dark magic and the screech of clashing metal.

He can’t hear her last words. No one can, and thus they’re lost to Gronder, much like the souls of those that departed before her.

Leonie’s death comes when she’s flung from her horse by a dark magic spell and impaled by a weapon already speared through another body. It’s likely Hubert’s work—though Claude arrives after the fact—and with two battalions down and two friends lost, Claude is already thinking of retreat. One is already too many, but two?

It’s when he loses track of Ignatz in the chaos that he calls it. Gives the command for Hilda, Raphael, and their battalions to retreat.

By the time his messenger arrives on her pegasus to the other side of the battlefield, Claude has already realized his grievous mistake.

Dimitri doesn’t think, he merely acts. He’s predictable in his unpredictability, meaning that the Faerghus soldiers are a disastrous mess with no respectable leader commanding them. They’re a nuisance and an obstacle, of course, but there’re no conniving plans coming from that side of the battlefield.

However, there are three sides to this fight.

Edelgard’s command comes while his messenger is already in mid-flight. It’s impossible for Claude to make it to Hilda in time; to change his orders.

It’s a pincer attack. In their current position, there _is_ no retreat for Hilda and Raphael. When they follow Claude’s command—which they will do, unwavering—their retreat will be met by another of Edelgard’s battalions.

With their own battalions decimated, they’ll be walking right to the slaughter.

Claude can’t breathe.

He’s trapped, wyvern hovering, as he watches them unknowingly advance towards their demise. He did this. He did this to all of them. To his friends—his golden family. He’s killed Lysithea and Leonie. Ignatz is missing and now he’s going to kill Hilda and Raphael as well.

When his wyvern abruptly aborts to the side, it takes every natural instinct—honed by years upon years of riding wyverns—to stay on his mount. Immediately he realizes it was a volley of arrows dodged, and Claude has to focus on himself. This _can’t_ all be in vain.

And so through his tears he fights. He fights till his hand axe cracks, until his last arrow is spent. He fights and he fights and he _fights_ until the fog rolls in thick enough that his visibility is shot to hell and all he can do is run.

He’s a coward. A failure.

But Nader’s voice in his head is relentless in telling him to retreat. Regroup. He flies towards the Airmid; towards Fodlan’s Throat.

He never sees the ballista coming.

When he comes too, it’s to a sea of white. For a dazed, bleary moment, he believes himself dead. The monks have always spoken of the beautiful white light of the goddess that one sees upon their death. He’s never been much of a believer, but perhaps she’s taken pity on him just this once.

Eventually the white shifts, however, and he realizes that it’s the white of his wyvern’s wing, tucked protectively over him. Carefully, confusedly, he forces himself to his knees. His head pounds. His body burns.

He pushes himself to rise, gently brushing aside his wyvern’s glorious wing as he stands on shaky legs.

Around him, amidst the incoming darkness and the building fog, is carnage. It’s viscera and blood and the stench of death and the bodies of friends—of practical family—of men and women who had dedicated themselves to his cause, had believed in his hopes, and who had died in his name. It’s groans of agony and desperate, dying prayers to the goddess. It’s ashes in the air that choke the breath from his lungs, and remains of soldiers he once knew charred beyond identification.

It’s Hell on earth.

He’s at the outskirts of the field—managed to get partway towards the Airmid before being shot down. The first thing he does is check on Dalia, his wyvern. Her one wing is horribly damaged. It can be fixed, he thinks, but he’ll have to get it treated soon, and it’ll take weeks, if not months, to heal well-enough for flight.

But what matters is that she’s alive. She’s been by his side since he was a sprightly little thing, all tiny body and gangly limbs and _so_ excited to hatch his very first egg. A pedigree wyvern bred specifically for the young prince. She’s been his best friend since he was 4—his _only_ friend until he was 17—and he absolutely can’t stand the thought of losing her, too.

“I’m so sorry, beautiful,” Claude whispers, voice weak as he grabs for her reins. “We’re going to get that wing of yours all fixed up, alright? And thank you for protecting me,” he finishes, reaching up to run his free hand along her snout, earning an exhausted trill of appreciation.

It takes him a moment to reorient himself. He needs to head towards Airmid regardless. It’ll give him access to water for himself and Dalia, tree coverage through Fodlan’s Throat that he can potentially follow back to Almyra, and he’s relatively sure that, near Hrym and at the base of the mountains, is a cave system. If he’s lucky—which is a big if, given the day—perhaps he can find somewhere to stay for a few days that’s big enough for the both of them. It won’t be enough time for her to heal, but it’ll give him time to think. To process. To regroup and reorient.

With a plan decided, he opts to hug the forested area on the outskirts of Gronder. It’s a side of the battlefield he wasn’t on previously. It seems to blessedly be further away from where the bulk of the fighting took place, and is therefore littered with less human remains.

He doesn’t get very far when he hears the tell-tale sound of glass crunching beneath his boot. When he crouches down to look, he immediately recognizes the pair of glasses.

He swallows down the lump in his throat as he picks them up, gloved thumb running gently over the round, shattered lenses. There’s no body he can see through the dense fog, but he’d recognize those frames anywhere.

Silently, he folds the glasses and tucks them into his pocket.

Their progress is slow, as he guides his grounded mount through the field. He’s careful to step around bodies—or any of the lingering flames left from the battalions—wary of Dalia’s dragging wing being further damaged.

He passes Gilbert’s charred body. He ignores it.

A crushed leg jutting out from beneath a dead Pegasus looks suspiciously like Ingrid’s. He doesn’t check.

Claude’s nearing the end of the field when he sees it. Sees the mound of fur soaked in blood, arrows jutting out of it. He recognizes it immediately.

He’d recognize Dimitri anywhere, really.

His first instinct is to leave it. He has Dalia to worry about, and himself, and there’s no telling when any of the three armies might return to count their dead. Or perhaps to retrieve their lost king.

He’s angry at Dimitri. Angry at his madness, angry at the foolhardy decision to run headlong into a battle with single-minded determination, ignoring his own men. Angry that the damned fool wouldn’t even _consider_ working together, even though it would have been the quickest, most efficient way to Edelgard’s head.

He hadn’t even bothered tossing a single glance Claude’s way.

And yet as Claude takes one step, intending to continue onward, he finds his second foot won’t move.

He can’t do it. He can’t leave Dimitri’s body without, at the very least, paying his respects. It may have been a pathetic death driven purely by madness, but at one time Dimitri was a friend. Was someone who, for some unknown reason, had gone out of his way to show Claude ample kindness. Perhaps that beautiful boy is gone now, but he still deserves a proper sendoff regardless of the monster he’s become.

And so, carefully, Claude guides Dalia over to the mass. 

As he draws closer, it moves.

He’s not sure why he’s surprised, really. No man should still be breathing with that many arrows jutting out his back, and yet Dimitri is Dimitri. A Blaiddyd through and through, with a crest that will do its damndest to keep him alive against his will.

Again, Claude debates leaving. Just because Dimitri’s alive doesn’t mean he will be shortly. His wounds are likely too grievous at this stage, and surely Faerghan stragglers will arrive at some point. They’ll tend to their dying king. Claude’s in no position to be handling any more injured.

His feet still won’t move.

“ _Damnit_ ,” he hisses out, because this is a mistake. What is he going to do with Dimitri? Use him as a bargaining chip with Faerghus?

Claude pauses.

It’s actually not a bad idea. If he manages to keep the king alive, so be it. It means he’ll still have a single card left to play even after his entire deck has been decimated. And if Dimitri dies, well. Claude wouldn’t consider himself the best companion for a final moment—and he certainly wouldn’t be Dimitri’s pick if given one—yet he’s still better than nothing. Better than dying a slow and horrid death alone, succumbing to the cold night air of the battlefield.

This is madness. It’s a terrible decision. And yet with that one, small, silly rationalization, Claude convinces himself of his choice.

He goes to Dimitri.

It’s just his luck that Dimitri has somehow grown even taller than back at the academy. He’s large and imposing now—on top of his already wicked strength—and it takes everything Claude has in him to squat down, dragging Dimitri’s body onto his back. Carefully crossing both of Dimitri’s arms in front of his chest, Claude settles his own hand atop them, grabbing Areadbhar in the same hand as the reins before rising, thighs shaking in exertion.

It’s brutal. And yet, somehow, it’s not quite as heavy as he imagined. By and large, it’s Dimitri’s armor weighing so heavily. Once, back at the academy, Claude had tossed Dimitri over his shoulder (and earned himself a bright red face and a shout of discontent from the prince). It’d been a joke—he’d been accidentally accused of being weak by Raphael and had felt the need to defend his powerful archer arms—and yet it doesn’t feel like Dimitri has gained much weight since then, despite the growth spurt.

It’s concerning. Then again, what about Dimitri isn’t concerning anymore?

Each step is agonizing. As each foot moves, he heaves for air under the exertion. He’s already exhausted from the battle, and likely mildly concussed from the fall; to add Dimitri’s body into the mixture is foolhardy at best. But at least Areadbhar helps some—acting as a glorified walking stick—and Claude can begin to make some progress.

It’s brutal.

In his mind, he distractedly sings to himself. Sings Almyran folk songs, sings pirate shanties he’s read in books, sings the holy songs he’d been forced to perform time and time again at the church. It’s ridiculous but it’s a much-needed distraction, something to draw his attention away from the burn in his body and the pound in his head as he makes his long, perilous journey.

He’s so thirsty.

There’s no part of his body left that doesn’t hurt.

But if he stops his mind drifts, and instead of those stupid sea shanties he sees Lysithea with a sword thrust through her breast and Leonie’s body impaled before him. Sees Hilda, full of trust, marching unknowingly to her death.

And so he continues to mentally sing. He walks for what feels like hours, never letting up on those songs.

Eventually it starts raining. He presses onward.

And then eventually he reaches it. For a moment, he thinks it’s a dream. But he’s done it. He’s reached the Airmid River. Finally, he can drink something, but even more importantly, he spots a cave. One with a large opening. Large enough to fit a wyvern, even. As he steps closer, he feels like he could cry.

Once he makes it to the entrance, he realizes he already is.

As he steps inside, he finally collapses to his knees, gingerly, numbingly, dropping Dimitri to his side. Claude gives himself a moment. A moment to breathe. A moment to rest his weary, battered body. But he doesn’t allow the moment to last long. Dimitri’s dying. Dalia’s injured. The nights are cold this time of year and he’s severely dehydrated.

He doesn’t have the time to rest; to linger. It’s a struggle for survival, now, and they’ve only just begun.

\--

To earn the mantle of Barbarossa is one of the most profoundly difficult tasks in Almyra. It’s vicious and it’s dangerous, involving years of honing both riding and fighting skills to achieve a monumental level of greatness.

And yet Claude had done it.

It had been grueling, brutal even, as Claude had balanced his Alliance persona with his desire to prove himself to his Almyran peers. But he’d proved himself, against all odds, and earned his place in the highest echelon of Almyran warriors. Suddenly, his Almyran people could no longer ignore him; consider him unworthy to their throne. For no one who has earned the title of Barbarossa could ever have their prowess questioned. 

One of the first things a person learns when they decide to pursue becoming a Barbarossa is about survival. Any Barbarossa worth their weight will always—no exceptions—travel with a full emergency kit. With wyverns as their lifeblood and war in their hearts, being shot down is an inevitability for the Barbarossa. And thus, Claude never flies without a full pack.

Today is the day that level of preparation might very well save his life.

Once he finds his footing, he heads to his wyvern to remove his emergency pack from her saddle. It’s hard to see—the darkness of the cave exacerbated by the cloud coverage from the rain—but eventually he locates his emergency torch and flint. After propping it up with a few rocks he lights it; it will only last a few hours, but it should hold out until daybreak.

Once he has lighting, he can focus on the essentials. First is to check that Dimitri is even still alive.

The shallow rise of his chest is indicator enough, and satisfied, Claude quickly moves on. Dimitri isn’t his top priority.

He has a pot in his kit; it’s not large, but it’ll do. The rain is coming down hard now, and so he heads to the mouth of the cave, holding his pot out. As it fills, he brings it to his lips, desperately gulping down the water before going back for more. Once sated—mind finally clearing some from the fog of dehydration—he leaves it out to continue gathering rain. He’ll need to eventually get water into Dimitri, and as soon as dawn breaks, take Dalia out to the river as well. But for now, he needs to play medic.

He has a roll of extra-large bandages in his pack. They’re for wrapping broken wyvern wings, but given Dimitri’s damage, their massive length is probably for the best. Once he’s done removing every arrow and tending each wound, Claude will most certainly need to wrap Dimitri’s entire torso.

Dalia is his first concern. He needs her if he plans to eventually make it back to Almyra, and she’ll be the significantly easier fix. If her wound gets infected, however, there’s also a good chance she’ll never fly again, and he absolutely can’t let that reality come to pass.

Plus, the grim reality is that Dimitri just isn’t likely to survive his impromptu operation. Once Claude begins removing the arrows and the wounds are no longer staunched, it feels inevitable that Dimitri will bleed out.

And so Claude focuses on Dalia.

She fights him, at first, but eventually relents as he carefully begins to spread her wing, attempting to assess the damage.

The interesting thing is that, despite being done by a large ballista arrow, it’s not a penetrative wound. There’s some bleeding, of course, but the arrow had merely grazed the top of her wing, near the shoulder. Unfortunately, however, while the arrow didn’t puncture through the webbing of her wing or any of the other terrible possibilities, it _did_ hit her humerus. It’s most definitely broken, but thankfully not shattered, and by feel, it appears to be a simple enough fracture. It should heal up nicely with rest and immobilization.

Wyvern bones don’t heal near as quick as bird bones, however. It will likely take 6-8 weeks before she can start working her way back into the air again.

That’s a hell of a long time to be out in the wilderness.

Claude doesn’t dwell on it, instead grabbing the pot of water so he can pour it over her wound, cleaning it as best he can. He returns the pot to the rain before working on the slow, arduous process of carefully wrapping her wing so the bone can heal properly.

Once that’s done, he moves onto Dimitri.

He honestly has no idea where to even start. He really doesn’t want to cut apart Dimitri’s entire cloak; it’s sturdy, warm, and if Dimitri fails to survive, Claude plans on using it for himself. But he’s not sure how else he’s supposed to get to Dimitri’s wounds, and so reluctantly, he removes his hunting knife from his boot. First, he gently unclasps the cloak from around Dimitri’s neck, taking a moment to remove any extra articles, including pouches, small knives, and the like.

Next, he opts to carefully lengthen the holes around each arrow without ripping the fabric in full, carefully lifting it up and setting it aside. He has a sewing kit in his bag, so he can eventually repair the holes. But for now, his focus is on Dimitri.

It’s difficult to see in the cave. Even with the torch lit, it casts unusual shadows and makes visibility questionable, especially when it comes to something so delicate and painstaking as removing arrows. But Claude doesn’t have the luxury of waiting another few hours for daylight, and so he does his best to closely examine each arrow wound, gauging their depth and severity.

“You lucky bastard,” Claude finally mutters, as realization sets in that while Dimitri has many wounds—both superficial and potentially life-threatening—the deepest have somehow avoided his vital organs. His armor is thickest at his breast and torso, and while the arrows have partially penetrated through the metal, the armor had prevented complete impalement.

Dimitri’s been bleeding out, but it’s overwhelmingly from the damage done to his extremities. There could still be internal bleeding, of course, but the likelihood is now far lower than Claude had predicted.

Dimitri might just have a chance.

Claude doesn’t dwell on his potentially fatal decision to save treating Dimitri for last; it’s too late to feel bad, and all he can do now is to try to keep that reality from coming to pass.

He keeps a small bottle of antiseptic in his pack. There’s not much, so he’ll need to ration it, but with how deep Dimitri’s wounds are compared to Dalia’s, he’ll need to get his hands as clean as possible, given the less-than-ideal conditions. He removes his gloves and then pushes up his sleeves, pouring a bit of the antiseptic into his palm before heading to the cave’s mouth, scrubbing his hands and arms as much as possible before rinsing them off.

As he returns to Dimitri’s side, pot full of water in hand, he takes a deep, long, mentally preparatory breath, and begins.

He’s not a medic. While he’s spent a lifetime learning as much about field medicine as possible, he’s no field surgeon—no doctor. But if there’s one injury type he knows intimately, it’s arrow wounds.

He works area by area, beginning with Dimitri’s torso. The most important part of the removal process is ensuring that the head of the arrow comes out cleanly with the shaft. If any piece of the arrowhead gets stuck, he’ll be forced to go digging with his knife, and it could be absolutely disastrous for infection.

There are four arrows in Dimitri’s back: one near his left shoulder, two along his right rib, and one right above the meat of his left buttocks.

None are near his spine. Another blessing.

Claude starts at the top. First his shoulder, allowing him to remove Dimitri’s pauldrons, then the two at his ribs. With each wound, he spends a few minutes applying as much pressure as he can with his hands, desperately trying to staunch the bloodflow. Once he removes all three arrows, he can unlatch Dimitri’s breastplate, slipping it off entirely.

The last arrow is easily the deepest, having managed to wedge right in the crook between Dimitri’s lower breast plate and the top of his loin guard. For now, Claude leaves it. Instead, he focuses on carefully cutting off Dimitri’s undershirt. He hates to do it—if Dimitri does survive, that’s one less piece of clothing he can wear—but there’s just no way around it.

Once the shirt is cut away, Claude can finally get a full picture of the damage. Dimitri is absolutely _covered_ in horrific bruises, but that’s not the focus, here. In Claude’s emergency kit is a thread and needle set specifically for suturing wounds. He takes a moment to pour a bit of the antiseptic into the pot of water, mixing it around as best he can. The cleanest thing he has on him is his ascot—buried under his collar as it is—and so he yanks it off before dipping it into the pot.

Starting from Dimitri’s shoulder, he washes away as much of the blood as possible. He doesn’t realize how badly his hands are shaking until he begins suturing the first wound. He’s exhausted. He hasn’t eaten.

He’s also terrified.

But he _has_ to do this. And so he takes another deep, grounding breath before getting to work. He’s deft with his hands, and once he begins, it slowly starts getting easier. The sutures become methodical in a way, as he works from that first wound to the next, washing and suturing his way down Dimitri’s back.

Once the last wound is sutured, he moves onto the lower arrow. Carefully, he removes Dimitri’s loin guard to get it out of the way.

There’s not really a good way to do this. It’s dug in deep—though thankfully not quite to the bone—and it’ll take a lot of muscle to remove it. Claude has strong arms, so he’s relatively sure he can do it, but it’s certainly not going to be pretty.

He’s forced to dig his fingers into the wound to feel around the arrow—he needs to make sure the barbs won’t catch—before finally grabbing around the hafting of the shaft and yanking. He winces in disgust as the blood immediately pools, putting his full weight on his palms as he desperately tries to staunch the flow. For a few minutes he just stays there, chest tight, beginning to fear that the blood flow may never stop. That this may be the one that finally kills Dimitri.

But eventually it begins ebb, and then stop, and Claude can repeat his procedure: carefully cleanse, then meticulously suture.

There are three remaining arrows, all in the limbs. Two are located in Dimitri’s left arm, the other buried in the meat of his right calf.

Claude starts with the calf.

By the time all the wounds are sutured, he feels like he might actually collapse. His vision’s blurring and his head’s throbbing and it’s _so_ difficult to focus.

He starts bandaging Dimitri’s wounds, anyways. He has to keep going.

It’s difficult, having to do his best to lift Dimitri to wrap around his chest, but eventually he gets Dimitri’s torso, leg, and arm wrapped, in a desperate attempt to keep out any irritants or infection. It may or may not work, but it’s the best Claude can do. Once finished, he takes the bloody container of water, heading back to the cave to wash it out in the rain, along with both his ascot and Dimitri’s cloak.

Dimitri’s cloak will need to spend some time down at the river, as it’ll need both the current and a deep scrubbing to have even a chance of being cleaned. But for now, Claude can at least wring out as much of the blood as possible. Claude’s ascot will also never be white again, but given their situation, he can surely find some other use for it. Once rinsed, he spreads both out to dry and places the pot back outside to refill before returning to Dimitri.

It’s only once he’s done with the impromptu surgery and the adrenaline has worn off that Claude realizes he’s still shaking.

He’s cold. _Very_ cold.

His coat is fairly water-resistant, but it’s far from waterproof, and it isn’t until now that he realizes just how waterlogged it’s gotten. He’s reluctant to take it off, but at this point it’s just seeping away what little body heat he has left. And so he adds it to the pile—close to the cave’s entrance but away from the rain—before returning to his wyvern.

“Want to help me out, girl?” he asks, gently reaching for Dalia’s reins. His fingers feel numb but he ignores the sensation, instead carefully guiding her over to Dimitri’s prone body.

He has nothing to cover himself with, much less Dimitri, and so this is the best solution he’s got.

Thankfully, his best friend is quite the reasonable lady, and as Claude urges her to lay next to Dimitri, she obeys without a fuss. Once she’s near Dimitri, Claude moves to huddle into the pile, back resting against her flank, thighs brushing up against Dimitri’s side.

It’s not ideal, desperately sharing body heat, but it’s the best chance any of them have at making it through the night.

It doesn’t take long for the exhaustion to take over.

\--

When Claude comes to, it’s to the sound of movement outside the cave. He jerks awake, green eyes red and bleary, as he scrambles for his knife.

When his mind catches up to his instincts, he realizes what the sound is.

It’s a beautiful axis doe staring at the pile of them, head tilted ever-so-slightly in confusion.

Her eyes are clear—her fur a beautiful, orange-ish hue—and immediately Claude’s stomach drops out from beneath him as he remembers the day before.

_All his deer are gone._

When he shifts, she spooks, and he watches in silence as she flees into the nearby foliage. Even after she’s gone, he continues to watch, staring at that now empty space. He’s not sure how long he stays like that—could be a few minutes, could be an hour—but eventually a gentle nudge from Dalia forces him back into the present.

He takes a moment to shake his head, trying to clear away the cobweb of emotion and anguish and panic, because he _needs_ to focus on all their survival. Dalia can’t hunt for herself anymore, and Dimitri—

Claude freezes, before suddenly scrambling to check Dimitri. His heart pounds as he rests his bare palm against Dimitri’s neck, and he can’t stop the gasp of relief as he feels a pulse—faint—beneath his fingertips.

Dimitri’s made it through the night.

With the reassurance that Dimitri is somehow still alive, Claude refocuses on the essentials—now that it’s no longer raining, he’ll have to come up with a way to purify the water from the river. Finding firewood is going to be a pain, but at least he still has a pot full of fresh rainwater to tide him over until he can get a fire going.

The bigger concern, hydration-wise, is Dimitri. There’s no way for Claude to get water in Dimitri while he’s unconscious. If he doesn’t wake up in the next 24 hours or so, where the wounds have failed to kill him, the lack of water will.

It’s a frustrating situation. Claude has done _so_ much to keep Dimitri alive. Dragged him for hours through the night and rain to safety. Carefully stitched close every single horrible wound. For Dimitri to succumb to dehydration is just a stab in the gut. Something so basic, something Claude could _so easily_ _fix,_ and it could still be what kills Dimitri.

He’s reluctant to leave Dimitri, but Dalia needs water and he needs to start exploring, and so tentatively he climbs to his feet. He stretches out his limbs—they ache horrifically—before carefully removing her saddle. He’d fallen asleep before doing so, and it must have been uncomfortable for her.

Once that’s done, he takes Dalia’s reins in hand. “Come on old friend, let’s get you some water,” Claude urges, waiting patiently for her to get up. Carefully he leads her to the cave’s entrance, grabbing the pot of water and taking a few gulps of his own before setting it back down and heading towards the river.

It’s a stupidly beautiful morning.

The calm after the storm finds the morning sun casting rays through the forest’s canopy, the light causing the river’s surface to gleam iridescently. The river gurgles, gentle and calming, while the morning birds chirp and flit about. Any other day, and Claude would find it all absolutely stunning. It’s nature at its kindest; its most forgiving.

It’s a gift from the earth itself.

But Claude’s too numb to appreciate it all. He’s too exhausted. Too beaten down. And so instead he quietly brings Dalia to the water, letting go of her reins so she can help herself to a drink while he silently explores the area.

Most of the wood is soaked. Every once in awhile he can find pieces of kindling that were protected from the rain by overhangs, but it’s going to be a venture trying to start a fire. His best solution is likely to look for large pieces, and then carve deep into them for the drier wood at their core. Less than ideal—carving up wood a big energy expenditure for someone who has no guaranteed food in their future—but without clean water he’ll be risking serious illness from contamination.

With two lives depending on him, he can’t afford to neglect himself. Even if a big part of him wants to just curl up into a ball and wither away, he can’t let the others down.

And so he focuses on his surroundings. On collecting hunks of wood and carrying them back to the cave so he can core them. He checks the flora of the immediate area and is pleased to see a few pines and wild mint around—they’re both high in vitamins and can be used to make serviceable tea.

Once— _if_ —Dimitri awakens, it’ll be a good, nutritional way to rehydrate him.

Claude picks a few leaves of mint to chew on in between idly scrubbing at his teeth with a twig. It’s not the fanciest method, but lack of food for approaching 24 hours means that his mouth tastes awful. His stomach is already clenching in hunger as well, but there’s not much he can do about that.

Fire first, hunger second.

Once he’s stockpiled enough wood to last through the night, he heads to the river to gather some moderately sized rocks to form a make-shift pit. Once he finally has everything he needs, he checks on the status of their clothing. Dimitri’s cloak is still damp, but Claude’s coat and ascot have already dried under the rays of the morning sun. His first instinct is to slip his coat back on, but on second thought, he returns to Dimitri. He folds the ascot before carefully slipping it under Dimitri’s head—it can’t be comfortable to have his cheek resting on the stone floor—then gently covers Dimitri’s torso with the coat.

Eventually, once Dimitri’s cloak is dry, Claude will patch it and put it over him to keep him warm. Until then, however, Claude’s coat will have to suffice.

He gets to work on the wood after that, making sure to stick close to Dimitri. It’s not much, but he can offer a little bit of body heat, at least.

It’s repetitive but therapeutic, in a way, as he carves up each hunk of wood. After an hour or so, Dalia wanders back into the cave. He acknowledges her with a few soft words, then quietly returns to his work.

It’s another few hours before he has enough kindling, tinder and wood to begin building—and hopefully sustaining—the fire. First, he forms the basic pit. Next, he starts working on the fire itself.

He’s built hundreds of fires in his lifetime, and it doesn’t take long for his flint to catch the kindling. Next comes the tinder, and once the small pieces of wood are thoroughly burning, he adds the thicker pieces.

The fire is _so warm_.

He’s half-tempted to close his eyes, lay down, and nap. He knows he can’t, however, and so reluctantly he climbs back to his feet, heading to his pot of water. He chugs what’s left before heading down to the river, filling it back up while eyeing the river for a moment. It’s the start of spawning season for the Airmid Pike, and every once in awhile he can see one breach the water.

Mentally, he starts trying to figure out how to craft a net, taking a brief detour to grab some more mint and pine before returning to the cave.

He can’t help but snort as soon as he realizes Dalia has shifted closer to both the flames and Dimitri, getting nice and cozy. While wyverns can tolerate the cold better than most humans, they certainly don’t _like_ it. There’s a reason they’re so rarely seen in Faerghus.

Once the pot begins to boil Claude adds the leaves, leaving them to steep. While he waits, he decides to go through his emergency pack and carefully inventory everything he has at his disposal. At some point, very soon, he’s going to need to start hunting. While Dalia can potentially catch herself a few fish, her balance is extremely precarious without her other wing. He doesn’t want her getting too wild in the water—it could also potentially ruin her bandaging—and so he’ll need to bring home a full meal before she decides to go wandering on her own.

The only thing working in his favor is that wyverns are a feast-or-famine species, much like snakes. They tend to gorge on one giant meal every week or so. Given the upcoming battle, she’d been fed an entire goat in preparation for Gronder, and so he still has a few days to work with before she starts getting hungry.

He removes the parts of his kit, piece-by-piece. His sewing kit is a compact blue box containing a few needles and small spools of thread. Next is his bottle of antiseptic, his flint, a compact mirror, the suture kit, and what’s left of his roll of bandages. There’s a small compass with a map, a mortar and pestle, a pouch with three fishing hooks and some line, along with a bundle of rope. He also has two more small pouches—one with fruit and the other nuts—which he grabs a handful from each and pops into his mouth.

He needs the energy. His emergency kit is fairly robust, but he never suspected he’d be in a situation where it wasn’t just him and his wyvern. Adding Dimitri into the mix—should he survive, anyways—is going to make an already difficult situation far worse.

Sighing to himself, he wanders over to Dimitri’s cloak. By now it’s also dry, and so Claude brings it back to the fire, taking a seat so he can begin repairs. It’ll be an absolute godsend to have a blanket for the night.

As he works—drinking his tea between repairing each hole—he does his best to keep his mind from wandering, desperately attempting to focus on his task. This time, he sings quietly to himself aloud, threading the needle through the fabric to the rhythm of his songs.

He thinks of his family. Of Almyra and her gloriously hot weather. Of big feasts and wyvern races and wrestling contests and colorful dances and all of the things he’s missed so deeply since coming to Fodlan.

He wonders how Dimitri would handle it. He’s terrible in the heat, of course, but Almyra’s warrior culture and lack of rigid social roles might be a huge boon for someone who has spent their entire life being weighed down by staunch propriety.

It makes him wonder how Dimitri had even ended up at Gronder, given his state. Claude can’t help but speculate what happened—wonders if all the Blue Lions are now gone as well. It’s a dark thought, but after what happened to the Golden Deer…

“Damnit!” he hisses irritably at himself, attempting to will his horrifically intrusive thoughts away from Gronder.

_Why can’t he just_ _stop thinking_.

For the moment, Dimitri’s still alive. Dalia’s still alive. _He’s_ still alive. And that has to count for something. He has to make _sure_ it counts for something, because what happened at Gronder absolutely cannot be in vain.

His Deer had followed him into hell for his dreams, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t— _somehow_ —see them to fruition. He owes them all that much.

He chokes back the lump in his throat and inhales deeply through his nose, trying to will away the emotion. Dimitri. Wyvern. Fire. Food. He has to focus his attention on the positive things he can still do. On the things he can control.

Once the cloak is fully patched, Claude checks once more on Dimitri.

He’s still unconscious but he’s also still breathing. It’s honestly the best Claude can hope for. Gently, Claude removes his coat from Dimitri, replacing it with the patched cloak. He wishes he could turn Dimitri—the position isn’t remotely good for him long-term—but with where his worst wounds are located, it’s too risky to do so.

Hopefully, he’ll wake up soon. He badly needs water in him.

Claude heads out to grab a bit more wood and to stockpile some mint and pine needles before it gets too dark. He also refills the water, before setting it to boil.

Tomorrow, his biggest concern will be trying to find a food source. The nuts and fruits he has will only last him a day or two, and Dalia will eventually need meat. Dimitri, should he wake, will also need to immediately be fed something nutrient-dense. There’s no chance of his body recovering from his horrific wounds without ample sustenance, and it’s on Claude to figure out how to acquire that for him.

When Claude finally decides to try to sleep a few hours later, he carefully crawls in between Dalia and Dimitri. He hates the cold, so he’ll gladly take the warmest spot possible, and this way he can also steal part of Dimitri’s cloak as well. It’s far from great—sleeping on the stone floor of a cave—but it’s much more comfortable than the night prior.

He’ll take it.

\--

It’s the sensation of fingers slowly tightening around his neck that jolts Claude awake.

For a brief moment he’s six again, the weight of one of his would-be killers pinning down his tiny body as he squirms and struggles and screams for his parents to save him.

Desperately, his hand scrabbles for his knife, heart pounding as he blindly searches for his weapon because _mama and baba can’t help him now_.

He can’t find it.

Panic rises in his chest and pools in his throat as weight bears down on his gut and hot breath thickens in his nose.

“Even you, Claude, have come to haunt me…?”

Claude freezes.

_Dimitri._

As Claude’s mind catches up to his instincts, he realizes that the weight on his abdomen isn’t digging deep enough to hurt, and the hand on his throat isn’t clenched down. As he swallows hard—Adam’s apple bobbing along the meat of Dimitri’s trembling palm—he realizes that his throat isn’t actually being obstructed at all.

Dimitri isn’t hurting him.

He could, of course, could snap Claude’s neck in a heartbeat if he chose to, and yet there’s no willingness there. Dimitri is assessing the situation in a rather animalistic—but thankfully nonviolent—way. It’s scary, and it’s intimidating as hell, but so long as Claude doesn’t give Dimitri a reason to panic, he thinks he’ll be okay.

“Haunt, your princeliness? Last time I checked, I was still very much alive,” Claude tries to joke, voice thick with a nervous mix of sleep and fear.

Dimitri snorts, breath warm in Claude’s face.

It smells bad. Not necessarily in an unhygienic of way (though that’s certainly an issue), but moreso in a terribly ill way. His breath is hot, dry, and acidic. He’s painfully dehydrated and, going off the sweat beginning to build over his neck and forehead, likely feverish. He reeks of sickness.

It’s not good.

“I never took you for a lying man,” Dimitri argues, voice rough and distant.

His eye is looking over Claude’s head, now.

“You might just be the only one who hasn’t,” Claude responds in kind. He can feel the ends of Dimitri’s hair brushing over his cheek. For some reason, it’s that small sensation that brings home just how intimate this entire situation is. His nose is no more than an inch away from Dimitri’s.

His chest continues to pound.

“Father, please stop,” Dimitri whimpers, eye squeezing shut for a moment as he tries to catch his breath.

It takes all of Claude’s will-power to stay limp and nonthreatening.

He can do this. It’s just like tending to a scared, injured wyvern.

“Dimitri, it’s just you and me, here. We’re in a cave near the Airmid River, somewhere in the mountains of Fodlan’s Throat. I dragged you here after I found you unconscious at Gronder Field. I’m not dead, and neither are you.”

“Lies.”

“Dimitri, I’m not lying. No one is here but you, me, and my wyvern.”

“ _Lies._ ”

Claude frowns.

“Dimitri, if I were a ghost, would I be able to touch you?” He’s using the same voice he does when handling a skittish wyvern. Calm. Easy. Non-threatening.

Carefully, he moves his hand—no fast movements, lest Dimitri panic—right hand settling reassuringly against Dimitri’s left knee.

Wrong answer.

“Do _not_ touch me!” Dimitri growls, lurching back off Claude and nearly falling right into the fire.

He doesn’t, but Claude’s stomach’s in his throat as Dimitri narrowly avoids the flames, stumbling desperately to his feet. The movement’s wild and disorienting, and immediately Claude sits up, panicked. “Dimitri, stop! You’re terribly injured!”

“Shut up!” Dimitri shouts, lumbering towards the cave’s exit, each step an erratic, barely functional stumble. The only thing keeping him moving is the pulsating bursts of the Crest of Blaiddyd.

It doesn’t last long.

Claude scrambles to his feet just in time to watch Dimitri trip, collapsing to the ground with a grunt and a confused curse. “I am so sorry,” Dimitri chokes out, head hanging as he struggles to breath. 

“Dimitri, it’s fine. Just calm down, we’ll get some water in you, and then—"

“Glenn, please, no…”

Claude freezes.

It’s only then that Claude realizes that Dimitri is no longer speaking to him. He may not have been for a while, now.

“I will… I _will_ kill her for you… I swear. Please, forgive me.”

Claude stares for a concerned moment before speaking.

“Dimitri, the only people in this cave are you and me,” Claude attempts to pacify, grabbing the pot of steeped tea and Dimitri’s cloak before tentatively walking closer. He’s not stupid enough to get within range yet, however.

“Her head…”

“Dimitri, you need to drink something. You’ll feel a lot better once you get some water in you,” Claude offers, purposely moving to step into Dimitri’s line-of-vision.

Slowly, Dimitri looks up. His eye looks so confused, half-hidden behind a mop of sweaty, golden hair. “Claude…?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Claude.”

Dimitri stares in silence.

“I made you some tea. It’s no chamomile, but it’ll do in a pinch,” Claude offers.

“Tea…”

“Just like old times,” Claude forces a smile. It’s half-assed, but he’s pretty damned sure Dimitri can’t tell up from down at the moment, so he won’t notice.

Tentatively, Claude gets down on his knees, bringing himself to Dimitri’s level. He’ll be less threatening that way. He holds out the pot.

For another long, uncomfortable moment, Dimitri just stares at him. But eventually Dimitri reaches out with his right hand, and Claude hands over the pot. “I brought your cloak, too. It’s cold near the cave’s exit, and you’re half-naked and unwell. You should really stay by the fire.”

Dimitri nods—though Claude has his doubts that Dimitri really understands what’s going on—shakily bringing the pot to his lips to take a gulp. After he swallows, he looks to Claude for reassurance.

Once Claude gives him a nod to keep going, Dimitri returns to the tea. He may be wild and unpredictable—sick and crazed as he is—but a part of that docile, obedient teenager must still be in there somewhere.

Dimitri’s shaky hand nearly drops the pot, but Claude manages to shove his palm out, catching it under the base before they lose everything.

That blue eye looks ashamed, as Dimitri continues slowly working through the tea. It has to be making him feel better, even if he’s not saying anything.

Once Dimitri’s finished off the water, Claude carefully takes the emptied pot—he’ll refill it first thing in the morning—setting it aside as he unfolds Dimitri’s cloak. Carefully, he drapes it over Dimitri’s bare shoulders, latching it. “Come on, Dimitri, we need to get back to the fire,” Claude urges, hand hovering over Dimitri’s uninjured arm. He wants to gently nudge Dimitri along, but last time he touched Dimitri, well…

That had not gone so well.

Dimitri struggles to rise to his feet, only to stumble back to the ground with a frustrated grunt.

Claude winces, fighting every instinct to reach out and catch him. It’s extremely painful to watch.

Dimitri settles on half-crawling, as Claude walks slowly alongside him. It’s heartbreaking, and internally Claude is screaming, but he _has_ to respect Dimitri’s choice. Dimitri had asked not to be touched, and who knows what’ll happen if Claude does it anyways. No matter how weak Dimitri is, the Crest of Blaiddyd is never to be underestimated; if Claude sets him off again, all hell could break loose.

By the time they make it back, Dalia is staring at them, beady eyes curious as Dimitri crawls back next to the fire, collapsing face down in exhaustion. It’s beyond sad.

Idly, as Claude reaches over to pet her neck, it dawns on him that she hadn’t reacted at all to Dimitri pinning him. Hadn’t considered him _remotely_ a threat.

She’s a highly overprotective mother-of-a-wyvern that has been fussing over him since he was a clumsy little kid toddling about, so the idea that she hasn’t read Dimitri as a threat is rather intriguing. She’s bitten people for far, _far_ less than putting a hand around his throat.

Claude takes a moment to stoke the fire, adding some more wood to the flames before finally taking his seat between wyvern and Dimitri.

It’s only when he’s sitting there that it finally sets in that Dimitri has woken up. Dimitri, while still feverish and a mess, might yet live.

After everything, Claude might have managed to save someone.

He falls asleep with his back to his wyvern and a small smile on his face.

\--

When Claude wakes, Dimitri’s gone.

So is Areadbhar.

Claude panics. “Dimitri!?” he calls out immediately, hauling himself to his feet, head jerking back and forth as he desperately looks around the cave. Either Dimitri’s wandered deep into the cave—Claude prays that’s not the case—or he’s left entirely.

Claude nearly trips over Dalia’s tail as he scrambles to the cave’s exit. “Dimitri!” he shouts again, desperately looking around. He notices footprints—Dimitri has no shoes on—and a dragline, immediately following it to the riverbank.

There he finds Dimitri sitting on an oversized rock, hands on Areadbhar’s handle while staring off at the water, completely oblivious to Claude’s presence.

“You scared me,” Claude sighs in relief, chest still pounding with adrenaline. At the rate they’re going, Dimitri is absolutely going to end up giving him a heart attack.

Dimitri continues to stare off, not bothering to acknowledge Claude.

He’s sweaty and shaky and his skin is ridiculously pale and clammy; he’s also leaning heavily against Areadbhar’s handle for support. He clearly used it as a walking-stick to get this far, but eventually his strength must have given out on him. Claude can already see where the blood has seeped through the bandage on Dimitri’s arm, and who knows about the other injuries that are being blocked by his cloak.

It’s rather severe bleeding.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Dimitri. You need to rest. All you’re doing by wandering around is expending energy you don’t have and exacerbating your wounds. And as the guy who spent hours treating them all, there are a ton,” Claude chides. He desperately wants to check Dimitri’s temperature and his wounds, but he can’t.

Dimitri doesn’t budge.

Claude sighs. He can’t forcibly move Dimitri. He’d love to, sure, but Dimitri’s crest is still a thing that can activate at a moment’s notice, and it could end up hurting either of them, intentional or not. Much like trying to handle a temperamental wyvern—forcing Dimitri to do something he doesn’t want to do just isn’t going to happen. And so the only real solution is to bring things to Dimitri to tide him over until he decides to move himself. It’s annoying, but it is what it is.

Claude sighs and heads back to the cave to grab the pot. He’ll boil some water, make some more mint tea, drink a potful himself, then steep another potful to leave with Dimitri. He needs to go exploring today, needs to see more of the territory around them, but he also needs to be hydrated to do so.

Dalia is still in the cave with him while he drinks his own pot of tea, but by the time he finishes steeping a second pot for Dimitri, she’s wandered off as well. While he’s still in the cave he makes sure to feed the fire a bit because he really doesn’t want to have to make another one from scratch, even if the woods are drier now.

Once the tea is ready, he heads back out, finding Dalia down at the river with Dimitri. She’s drinking water but sticking close, and for the first time since Claude found him, Dimitri’s no longer staring off at the water, instead watching her.

“Since when did you get so friendly, ma’am?” Claude can’t help but ask as he strolls over to the duo, pot in hand.

Dalia glances over, giving him an excitable trill hello. He uses his free hand to pet her flank before turning his attention on Dimitri. “I made you some more tea,” he explains, holding out the pot.

Dimitri doesn’t take it.

Claude can just _feel_ his eye twitch in irritation, but he forces himself to stay calm. Dimitri’s extremely unwell. He’s probably not being intentionally rude, even if he’s absolutely being a little shit at the moment. “Look, I don’t care if you want to sit here all day and do nothing, but at least drink the tea. You’re still extremely dehydrated, you know, and you’ll heal up better with more water in you.”

When Dimitri still doesn’t respond, Claude sighs. He settles on putting the pot on the ground next to Dimitri. Hopefully, he’ll drink it on his own time.

“Anyways, I’m going to go explore the area. I’m hoping I can find us something to eat,” Claude explains. While he’s wandering, he also plans to start looking for arrow-making materials. He’d broken his silver bow and used all his arrows up at Gronder. So while Failnaught is absolutely excessive for hunting, it’s all he has to work with. He’ll definitely need to make a few arrows before he can even hope of hunting any beasts, however.

They won’t be perfect arrows—he doesn’t have a proper fat source for preparing the shafts—but maybe he’ll be lucky enough to find a decent substitute as he wanders.

He also plans to see if he can track down any coneflowers. They’re in bloom at the moment, and tea made from their petals is notoriously good at helping allay fevers. Now, whether he can get the tea _into_ Dimitri is a whole different question, but at least it’d be a start.

And Dimitri needs all the help he can get.

Dimitri doesn’t respond to Claude, and so Claude shifts his attention to Dalia. “Keep an eye on him for me, alright?” Claude asks, voice low as he gives her another fond pat. She nuzzles against his cheek, and he earns a face full of wyvern breath as she happily snuggles into him. It’s gross but he loves her, making sure to give her a final pet before wandering off towards the woods.

He tries to focus on his task. On his environment. He has to stay alert to anything he might possibly be able to use out here to keep them both alive.

When he finds small rocks that he believes he can shape into arrowheads, or old pieces of animal bone, he shoves them into his pockets. Thin saplings all get a once-over for their size and shape as well—those that seem viable for arrow-making, he collects. Any feathers large enough to use for fletching are also tucked away.

It’s a good hour in before he hits the motherload. Appleberries.

They’re small and tart, but they’re very nutrient-dense. They won’t make for a substantial meal, of course, but they’ll get a lot of essential vitamins into Dimitri. Ones needed for healing.

After eating a few handfuls himself—they taste heavenly, with how famished he is—Claude unwraps the sash from his waist and uses it as a berry carrier, stuffing it full of the fruit.

His next big find on his search for coneflowers is alderroot. It’s a large, flowering plant that produces edible flowers, leaves and seeds. While the leaves certainly won’t taste great, a pseudo-salad is better than nothing, and adding the appleberries might make it a bit more palatable. He shakes out as many seeds into his sash as he can, along with plucking some of the flowers and leaves.

He also takes the time to harvest any yellowlion weeds he finds, making sure to pull them out by the root—while the entire plant has benefits, the root in particular is known for fighting infection. And going off Dimitri’s fever, there’s definitely some type of infection in play.

Claude just hopes it’s not severe.

The quest for coneflowers continues for another half-hour, until finally he manages to find some in a clearing of the forest where the canopy is open, allowing the sun’s rays to beat down heavily on the blooms. He harvests a few handfuls—he can try to dry some over the next few days to ensure a constant supply for Dimitri—before acknowledging that his sash is getting overfull and he still needs to get back and collect firewood.

When he finally makes it to their campsite, Dimitri is still sitting on the rock, pot at his feet, Dalia sunbathing beside him. Claude has to hold back the groan of annoyance—of _course_ the pot hasn’t moved. As he walks over to Dimitri, Dalia plods over to say hello. He gives her a fond pat, glancing down at the pot.

It’s actually empty. He’s surprised.

“I didn’t find anything too exciting, but I did manage to score some appleberries, seeds, and edible weeds.”

“Weeds…” Dimitri frowns, still staring off.

Claude’s surprised to hear him finally speak, but he doesn’t push for anything more. “Most exciting thing I managed to find is some coneflowers, though. They make a potent tea that’s known for helping with fevers. I have to imagine your head’s pounding something fierce, so after I get something to drink, I’ll brew up a pot for you. Thanks for drinking what I left, by the way,” Claude says, voice easy and calm as he bends down to grab the pot.

He takes a moment to rinse it out in the river before refilling it, bringing it back to the cave with him so he can get it on the fire. He’s forced to feed the fire a bit before he can begin boiling the water—it’s nearly dead after not being tended for a few hours—but once that’s done he gets the water going, taking a seat so he can begin working through his collection. He spreads out his sash, carefully dividing everything out. It’s a decent haul, all things considered, and he can’t help but eat a handful of the seeds. He’s already so hungry it’s getting hard to focus.

Once the water is boiled, he waits for it to cool enough to drink, gulping the entire thing down before returning to the river for a refill. “Your tea’s up next,” he lets Dimitri know.

He gets no response, but a silent companion is better than no companion at all, he supposes.

Once he’s back at the cave, he puts the water on to start boiling before heading out to collect firewood. Thankfully, the area is wooded enough that there’s a steady supply of twigs and branches. He alternates between adding wood to their stockpile and checking on the water. Once it’s boiled for the requisite ten minutes, he removes it from the fire and tosses in the coneflowers, leaving them to steep as he continues collecting firewood.

Eventually, after he’s collected enough wood and the flowers have steeped long enough, he gathers up a heaping handful of berries and seeds before heading back to Dimitri with the tea. “It’s not much, but I brought you some berries and seeds, along with your tea. Can at least get a bit of nutrition into you,” Claude explains, offering up his palmful of goodies.

To his surprise, Dimitri tentatively reaches out. His hand’s shaking as he offers up his palm—despite their overall size-difference, Claude can’t help but note that their hands are almost the same size—and carefully he pours everything into Dimitri’s hand. “They’re a little underripe so they’re not going to be the best tasting, but—" Claude doesn’t even get to finish before Dimitri dumps the entire handful into his mouth, completely unfazed. “Or… that works, too.”

Dimitri doesn’t chew long before swallowing everything down, and Claude’s half-afraid he’ll choke himself to death on some berries. What a way to go _that_ would be. “Uh, that’s all I brought over, but there’s more back at the cave, whenever you decide to head over there. Anyways, here’s your tea as well,” Claude explains. Unlike the last time, Dimitri takes the pot from him, carefully sipping at the drink. 

“So… think I can look at those wounds sometime today, friend? Preferably before it gets too dark?” Claude asks, eyeing the blood sleeping through the bandages on Dimitri’s arm.

Dimitri frowns, eye drifting down to his tea.

“I’ll touch you as little as possible, I swear. And I get it, really. It’s just… you’re clearly bleeding through at least one of the bandages, and that’s just what I can see. We don’t want your wounds to get infected out here because, frankly, it’s likely to be a death sentence.” Claude frowns before quietly continuing. “There’s not a lot out here I can do for you, and I really don’t want you dying on me too, you know.”

Dimitri glances up at Claude, exhausted blue eye looking almost curious—he seems to be seeking something out in Claude’s face—before silently returning his gaze to the tea. Eventually, after a long, borderline-uncomfortable pause, he nods ever-so-slightly. It’s a relief.

“That’s great, thanks. I’ll be able to rest a lot easier once I know you’re healing up right.”

For a few minutes they just stay in silence together—it’s surprisingly peaceful, all things considered—before finally Claude speaks again. “I’m going to try hunting tomorrow. See if I can find a beast or something. We both badly need a real meal, especially you. You’ll never heal up right if I can’t get more into you than berries and seeds.”

Dimitri doesn’t respond, eyes still on the water, but Claude’s pretty sure he’s heard, regardless.

They sit together for as long as it takes Dimitri to finish his tea. Claude quietly offers to brew some more, taking the pot and refilling it with fresh water before heading back to the cave. He’s halfway through boiling when he hears the slow, telltale drag of Dimitri using Areadbhar to limp over.

Claude desperately wants to help, but he doesn’t. Instead, he uses a stick to poke at the fire, keeping his eyes off Dimitri for the moment.

Dimitri doesn’t need to feel any more exposed than he already is. 

It takes Dimitri a few more minutes to make it into the cave, and another good minute or so to awkwardly seat himself. He looks utterly exhausted, despite how little he’s done all day. Then again, Claude wishes he’d done even less—if Claude had his way, Dimitri never would have left the cave at all beyond going to the bathroom. 

“Why don’t I spread out your cloak, so you have something to lay down on while I check your wounds?” Claude suggests, idly tossing another piece of wood into the fire.

Dimitri stares for a moment, before shakily moving his hand to his cloak’s clasp. He can’t undo it. He tries, unsteady fingers fumbling desperately at the thick clasp, but any dexterity he might otherwise have is lost to the weakness in his body and the damage to his limbs.

“May I…?” Claude finally asks because _damn_ is it hard to watch someone he cares about struggle so terribly.

Dimitri’s gaze moves up slowly, tiredly meeting Claude’s. Claude tries not to look too eager, despite how he may feel, not wanting to pressure or anger Dimitri. Eventually—thankfully—Dimitri nods.

Claude sets aside his stick, moving to kneel before Dimitri, carefully undoing the clasp. Once the cloak is removed from his shoulders, Claude can finally get a better idea of what he’s working with.

From what he can see it’s not good, but it’s not completely terrible, either. Either the wound on Dimitri’s arm is bleeding through, or he’s popped one of his stitches. Which, given his freak out the night before, seems the more likely option.

Claude opts to quietly spread out the cloak, moving aside so Dimitri can lay down while he prepares everything he needs to tend Dimitri’s wounds. While Dimitri quietly settles, Claude grabs the roll of bandages and the freshly boiled pot of water—tea will have to wait for now—laying everything out to make the entire process as quick and efficient as possible. He adds a bit of the antiseptic to the water before getting to work.

He starts with Dimitri’s limbs, because they’re the easiest to unwrap without forcing Dimitri to move around too much. As expected, Dimitri’s arm has popped two of the stitches, and the wound is reddening around the edges. Claude could replace the stitches, but he’s afraid that if he does so, he’ll just be keeping any potential infection in. It’s better to let the wound drain, however disgusting it may be.

Thus, Claude opts to simply rinse it out with clean, antiseptic water rather than to try to patch it up.

A rather pleasant surprise comes from Dimitri’s calf. Despite his inability to just rest the wound, his stitches haven’t popped, and it doesn’t appear to have any signs of infection yet. Claude takes the time to patiently clean that wound as well, before beginning the arduous process of unwrapping Dimitri’s midsection. He sets aside all the used bandages—he’ll boil them for sterilization and then reuse them after hanging them out to dry—before closely examining each wound, working from top to bottom.

As he carefully pulls down the waistband of Dimitri’s trousers to access the final wound, he almost makes a joke about how he pulled an arrow out of Dimitri’s butt in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood. Given how he’d barely gotten Dimitri to agree to let him even do this, however, he decides it’s probably best not to press his luck. Not everyone appreciates his humor.

Once he finishes cleaning all the wounds—thankfully only the one seems infected so far—he waits for Dimitri’s skin to dry before re-wrapping them all in fresh linen.

He helps Dimitri sit up and re-clasp his cloak—pleased Dimitri’s even allowing the assistance—before he gets to work on boiling all the soiled linens. The stains won’t come out, of course, but he’ll be able to re-use them once they’re all washed and dried.

As each batch boils, he creates a clothesline out of the bundle of rope from his pack to hang them all from before dumping out the dirty water and grabbing another potful from the river. He prepares some more coneflower tea for the both of them, watching in amusement as Dalia finally plods over to join them inside the cave, plopping down dramatically alongside Dimitri.

Tentatively, Dimitri’s hand reaches out, fingertips gently running along her scales. She gives a happy little trill and a small shimmy at the attention.

The positive reinforcement seems to goad Dimitri on, and silently he continues with his slow, methodical pets. 

As far as Claude can remember, Dimitri had never shown any predisposition to wyverns back at the academy. Sure, he’d ridden them—they all had—but he’d always been the happiest when working with the horses. There had been plenty of mornings where Claude had walked past Dimitri and Sylvain quietly at work together in the stables, brushes in hand.

He wonders if Sylvain is still alive.

He quells the thought immediately.

While the tea steeps, he heads out to grab some more of the fresh mint, and to look for a rock flat enough to use as a mock cutting board. He also spends some time seeking out thick hunks of bark that he can turn into pseudo-plates. It’s not fancy, but he doesn’t have a cutlery set in his emergency kit, and so he and Dimitri are going to have to make do with what he can find.

When he returns, Dimitri has moved closer to the fire, and is now idly using one of the sticks to stoke the flame while staring off.

“So, we don’t have a lot to work with, but I figured I could make us a salad or something. Make a dressing out of the berries and mint, then top it with seeds and nuts for a little crunch. Far from gourmet, but hey, it’s better than nothing,” Claude explains, setting down his new finds.

Dimitri doesn’t comment.

They share the pot of tea in silence, as Claude uses his hunting knife to prepare their meager meal. First, he removes the leaves from the yellowlion weed, setting aside the roots. He’ll hang them out to hopefully dry, so that he can eventually crush them up and use them in teas to help stem Dimitri’s infection. He adds some of the alderroot leaves, along with the flower heads.

Once that’s done, he pulls out his mortar and pestle, grabbing a few handfuls of the appleberries. Tossing in some of the mint, he crushes them all together, occasionally adding a little bit of the coneflower tea to loosen it all into some semblance of a sauce. Once that’s done, he spreads out the leaves amongst both of their bark plates before pouring the sauce over it, topping both with a mixture of seeds and some of the nuts from his own emergency rations.

Content with his creation, however mediocre, he grabs four sticks from the pile of wood, offering a plate and two sticks to Dimitri.

Dimitri takes the plate, but simply stares at the sticks, confused.

“I don’t have any utensils in my pack, so we’ll have to work with what we have.”

“Sticks…?” Dimitri finally asks, frowning.

“Yeah?” Claude stares back, until it finally dawns on him that they don’t use chopsticks in Fodlan. “Oh! I-I didn’t even think, sorry. You just, you can use them to eat. I mean, it’s not an Almyran thing, we generally use forks too, but we picked up the habit from Morfis,” Claude babbles. “We don’t have much of an aptitude for magic in Almyra, so Morfis trades a lot of their magical technology with us in exchange for goods they can’t get, like meats and cheeses, since most of their country’s built in a desert and they can’t reliably maintain livestock. Southern Almyra has a pretty big Morfan population due to the trade routes, and they brought their foods and customs with them, so… yeah. Here, just let me show you.”

“Almyra…” Dimitri mumbles, but he doesn’t say anything more.

Claude takes a moment to show Dimitri how to hold them, carefully correcting his form each time he tries—and drops—a leaf. It doesn’t help that his hands are still so shaky.

It takes awhile, but eventually Dimitri gets a semi-reliable grip on them, and Claude’s able to go back to his own meal.

It tastes terrible.

But also he’s starving, so he’ll shove his face full of grass if he has to. He’s mostly just impressed at how quickly Dimitri’s scarfed it down, horrific taste and all. How Dimitri can be so entirely unfazed is beyond comprehension. Idly, Claude wonders what Faerghan food is like.

Probably terrible, going by Dimitri’s total lack of standards.

Once they’re both finished, Claude moves onto hanging both yellowlion roots and coneflowers out to dry, along with washing off their bark plates, mortar and pestle to prevent any bug infestations in their campsite. Another pot of fresh water—they’ve finished off their coneflower tea and now it’s time for some pine needle—and he finally settles in for the evening. It’s already beginning to get dark, and he still has arrows to make.

The process is time consuming, so he starts with the arrowheads first, ignoring the curious blue eye that seems content to watch him work.

Claude takes the hunks of old bone he’s scavenged, breaking them against rocks before using said rocks to sand down the edges into sharp points. Once he has five done, he moves onto the shafts. He won’t be able to make them properly—he needs oil for that—but he’s curious to see if the mint he’s collected can work in a pinch.

After carefully peeling and preparing each piece of sapling, he begins the slow, arduous process of heating the wood until it’s malleable enough for him to straighten. He rubs each shaft down with some of the mint before putting it over the heat—oil is always used to prevent the wood from drying out and cracking so he hopes the mint might help—carefully working each piece as straight as he can by rubbing them along the meat of his thigh. Next comes splitting feathers for fletching, and finally carving a notch into the base of each arrow.

By the time he reaches the point of assembly—first attaching the arrowheads via hafting, then attaching the fletching as well—it’s already gotten quite late. Heck, Dimitri’s already dozed off, buried under the thick of his cloak, lying close to Dalia.

Claude’d like to have more arrows to work with in case he loses some, but the five will have to do for now. His eyes are blurring and his hands are becoming shaky, so it’s best he turn in for the night as well.

He makes sure to feed the fire some more before moving to crawl into his spot between Dimitri and Dalia, tentatively reaching for the edge of Dimitri’s cloak.

Dimitri immediately jerks awake, blindly pulling away from Claude.

“Sorry!” Claude immediately gasps out, even as Dimitri stumbles away from him. “Oh come on Dimitri, I’m sorry, I was just cold and going to steal the edge, you don’t have to run away,” Claude groans.

Dimitri ignores him.

Eventually, Dimitri settles in on the other side of Dalia; it’s ridiculous because it puts him that much further away from the fire. But no amount of coaxing can seem to convince him to come back, and so Claude’s stuck with no blanket and no body heat outside his wyvern. At least he’s closer to the fire, he supposes.

He’d still have preferred Dimitri’s feverish warmth, though.

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night.

\--

_“G-Ghosts aren’t real, Claude!” Lysithea hisses angrily. It’s all bark, however—as they stroll the nightly grounds of Garreg Mach, she hovers deceptively close at Claude’s side._

_“They aren’t? That’s interesting. I’ve heard that in other cultures, they believe that the ghosts of the dead reside in the Netherworld, where they go about their new lives in a similar manner to their previous ones. They live in homes, in societies, surrounded by their fellow dead with whom they form new and eternal relationships with.”_

_“Claude, don’t you dare,” Lysithea accuses, eyes glaring._

_“However! Their standard of living in the Netherworld is directly determined by the offerings of the living. When someone dies, it’s the responsibility of those left behind to supply them with offerings, ones that will find them in the Netherworld and provide them with comfort. However, of course, some people die unloved. Unwanted. They’re buried alone, and ungrieved.”_

_“Claude!”_

_“They die without anyone to provide for their souls. They enter the Netherworld alone, and are given no support once there. They become vengeful. Angry. Jealous.”_

_“Claude, I swea-“_

_“They roam the Netherworld, desperate to experience the same love that the spirits around them receive. Sometimes, they become so desperate they even come to the surface. The most common people left behind are children, you know. When parents die, their children are still around to pay them offerings and to provide them support in the afterlife. Those without children are the most likely to suffer in the Netherworld. So when those lonely, unloved spirits come to the surface, they look towards children. Children have a better aptitude for seeing the dead, you see. Their spirits are young, curious, and easily influenced. Easily manipulated.”_

_“Cl-“_

_“And on nights like this, under the guise of the waning moon, is when the spirits come out most often. Amidst the glow of the night’s fog, they roam in the darkness, seeking out unsuspecting children, ones with good hearts and open minds, waiting for their guards to drop before-“ Claude casually reaches behind Lysithea, finger poking into her side._

_Her screech is near deafening, and as she takes off running Claude can’t help but burst out laughing. “Oh come on, Lysithea, I was just joking! Get back here! Or well, okay, actually all of that technically is true, but still!” Claude chuckles, chasing after her._

_She turns a corner, still yelling curses at him as he pursues, still trying to hold back his laughter._

_As he turns the corner, he freezes._

_There she is, standing before him in the dark, sword impaled through her breast as blood and sinew drips to the ground._

_Claude’s frozen, even as he watches her lips move in a silent plea._

_Frozen, even as he watches her body crumble to the ground before him._

_“LYSITH-“_

“-EA!!!” Claude screams as he jolts awake, voice echoing throughout the cave as he chokes down his tears and the hideous burn of his own vomit pooling in the back of his throat.

_Oh gods._

_Oh Goddess._

_No. Nooo._

“Sh-Shit…” Claude wheezes out, chest heaving desperately, tears burning his eyes.

“I will keep my promise to you, father. I-I failed Rodrigue, I failed you, but I _will_ succeed. I won’t let you all continue to suffer, I swear. I will see to your revenge. Finally, you may rest easy…”

Sluggishly Claude sits up—it’s only then that he realizes he’s covered by the warmth of Dimitri’s cloak—gaze following the quiet sound of Dimitri’s trembling voice.

He’s sitting near the cave’s entrance, staring at the wall.

He has to be freezing—he has neither shoes on, nor his cloak—and yet he appears completely unbothered by the cold.

“S-Sorry if I woke you,” Claude finally says, dragging the cloak in tight, still attempting to mentally will away the haunting images of Lysithea.

Dimitri glances over at him but says nothing, attention shifting back to the wall as he returns to his conversation with his ghosts. For a few moments Claude just watches, trying to understand just what Dimitri is seeing. He can’t, however, and it’s not his place to judge. He takes a moment to toss another piece of wood onto the fire before huddling against Dalia.

Neither of them fall back asleep.

Dimitri may never have actually slept in the first place.

Eventually, Claude decides to fetch them some water. He grabs the emptied pot, pausing as he walks past Dimitri to gently drape Dimitri’s cloak over his shoulders. “Thank you,” Claude nods appreciatively.

He means it. The nightmare was horrible, but waking up to actual warmth for the first time in days was not.

Dimitri glances up as though surprised by the sudden contact—perhaps he was too deep in his own mind to hear Claude approach—but he says nothing as Claude heads out to the river. The sun is beginning to rise but is still below the horizon, making visibility poor, albeit manageable. He’ll need to leave for hunting soon, but first he has to make sure that Dimitri is set for the morning.

Everything is already becoming automatic.

Claude brushes his teeth with some fresh mint and the frayed end of a stick. He drinks an entire pot of water before steeping another pot of coneflower tea for Dimitri. He portions out some of the remaining berries and seeds to split between the both of them.

Once he’s set out food and water for Dimitri, he can finally grab his empty quiver, his homemade arrows, his compass, and Failnaught. “Keep him safe for me,” he mumbles to Dalia, giving her a soft nuzzle before heading towards the cave entrance.

“Try to remember to drink your tea, Dimitri. And eat your breakfast whenever you can stomach it,” Claude adds, giving Dimitri a meaningful nod.

Dimitri doesn’t respond, but Claude feels better having said it as he steps back outside and heads for the woods.

The rising sun makes his travels easier, as he quietly roams the forest.

He’s always enjoyed hunting. Not the act of killing—that’s always been a difficult, albeit sacred, thing for him. But the simple feel of being close with nature; of observing his surroundings. Of experiencing a deep, profound connection with the earth itself.

He tries to ignore his earlier nightmare, to ignore his hunger, and to instead focus on the moment. The experience. Out here in the wilderness, alone, he forces away the thoughts of Almyra, of his survival, of the failures of Gronder and the desperate, shell-of-a-man waiting for his return.

He focuses instead on the surrounding flora, on the birds chirping about, and on the constant, humming buzz of the resident insects. He’s mindful of the rise of the sun, the rays covering the trees in a stunning, ephemeral glow. He focuses on the sound of the river flowing in the distance.

And then, eventually, he sees it.

His heart sinks.

It’s a beautiful, six-point buck, calmly wandering through the trees ahead of Claude, periodically pausing to take a bite of grass and weeds. Of all the creatures to stumble across, the last thing he wanted was a deer.

Claude doesn’t want to do it.

As he slowly—tiredly—closes his eyes, all he can see in his mind are Dalia and Dimitri. They’re both hurting. They’re both hungry. They’re both too injured to properly care for themselves.

They _need_ him.

He reopens his eyes, taking a slow, deep inhalation through his nose as he sets his arrow and raises Failnaught.

His crest activates as he releases. As the newfound strength and vitality courses through him, the disgust in the pit of his stomach rises. There’s something grim and horrific about his crest. About being healed through the pain—through the _death—_ of others.

Outside of the throes of battle, he hates it.

It’s a clean shot, at least. He rushes over in case he needs to finish the poor thing off with his knife, but the deed is already done.

“I’m so sorry,” Claude mumbles, kneeling beside his kill, hand gently running along the deer’s snout. “Thank you for your sacrifice. I promise you, I won’t waste this precious gift,” Claude whispers, taking a moment to recite a silent prayer.

It’s a long, exhausting trek back to the cave. He’s physically rejuvenated by his crest, but there’s no pride in the kill. No sense of joy. Just an understanding of the necessities of survival, of the knowledge that for him to live, for him to keep the other two alive, sacrifices need to be made.

When he arrives back at the river, he notes that Dimitri hasn’t moved. Dalia, on the other hand, has migrated near the river rocks to go sunbathing. Claude doesn’t acknowledge either of them, instead focusing on hanging and processing his kill. As he works, he can feel eyes on him—knows that Dimitri is watching.

He’ll use everything the deer has to offer. He’ll dry out the skin for a rug, so that they can finally rest on something besides the stone of the cave floor. He’ll feed big hunks of the raw meat to Dalia, while smoking the rest to last him and Dimitri for at least another week or two. He’ll use the fat for cooking and arrow preparation, and the sinew for cordage. The organ meat can be cooked, and the antlers carved into arrowheads and other weaponry.

It’s tedious, and Claude finds himself only half paying attention as he works. He’s emotionally drained. Exhausted, even. It’s been so long since he’s felt so horrifically, crushingly low, and yet he doesn’t have the option to wallow. To grieve. He has to keep going.

He takes a break to spear some meat on sticks, bringing them over to the fire to roast. Maybe, if he gets an actual meal in him, he’ll feel better. Plus, Dimitri’s healing body could use the boost as well.

As he heads back into the cave to hang the meat over the fire, he walks past Dimitri. His meager meal is gone and his tea has been drunk, so once the meat is cooking, Claude comes back for the pot. He doesn’t say anything to Dimitri as he takes it, instead heading back out to the river for a refill. He needs to wash his hands of the blood, anyways.

He spends a long time scrubbing his hands. They’ll be bloodied again soon enough, yet a compulsive, angry part of him can’t stop. Can’t stop desperately trying to feel some semblance of clean again.

He’s not sure he’ll ever get the seeping stench of war out of his skin.

His hands are shaky and red and almost raw by the time Dalia nudges him from behind. He jumps in surprise, heart fluttering, until he realizes who it is. “I’m fine,” he mumbles in reassurance, despite his own self-doubt. Thankfully, being a wyvern, she won’t judge him.

He finally rises, refilling the pot with water and heading back to the cave.

The meat’s overdone. He must have been down at the river far longer than he realized. He says nothing, however, instead adding the pot to the flames and grabbing both sticks of meat, heading to Dimitri’s side. “Eat,” he orders, holding out one of the sticks. He doesn’t have it in him to be companionable currently.

Dimitri glances up at him—his eye seems far away, even as he looks at Claude—eventually taking the offered meal. Dimitri doesn’t complain about the gamey, tough texture.

Claude appreciates the silence.

Once they’ve both finished, Claude heads back to cut and skewer some more slices of meat. Hopefully, this time he won’t overcook it. While he waits for it to roast, he removes the boiling water, tossing in some of the pine needles to steep some fresh tea. In hindsight, he’s quite thirsty.

The plan for the rest of the day is to build a second fire outside the cave, and turn it into a makeshift smoker. Once he’s smoked the meat, it should last for much longer. He’ll also need to complete the tedious task of restocking their firewood supplies, as well as re-straighten his arrows.

After he gets freshly brewed tea and a second set of meat skewers into the both of them, Claude heads back out. First point of order is to put more water on the fire before going off in search of everything he needs. He collects rocks for a makeshift pit, a mountain of firewood, and leaves; he needs them to surround the small fire with, keeping all the smoke contained. At least he doesn’t have to remake an entire fire—he can steal embers from their main one.

Once the smoker is built and Claude has harvested all that he needs from the deer, he gives the remainder of the carcass to his wyvern. She’ll make sure that nothing goes to waste.

While everything smokes, he decides to grab his ascot, heading back down to the river. He undresses down to his underclothes, dipping his ascot into the cold river water before using it to wipe down his face and body. It’s freezing, but he feels disgusting in a way he just can’t seem to get rid of. He washes himself off as best he can before re-dressing. He doesn’t feel any better.

When he heads back to the cave, both Dimitri and Dalia are curled up together by the fire. Claude silently joins them. Now that he’s slightly cleaner, he realizes just how badly Dimitri stinks. He’s half-tempted to comment on it because of his foul mood, but before he has the chance to speak, Dimitri is carefully handing over the pot of water.

Claude glances down at it, surprised at the gesture.

It’s a pot of tea, actually. There’s way too much pine needle in it—it’s going to taste horrifically acidic—but an attempt at brewing him tea has been made regardless.

“Pine…” Dimitri mumbles quietly, gaze on the tea in Claude’s hand.

“Yeah, they’re pine needles,” Claude agrees, confused.

“You… like Almyran pine…” Dimitri says, voice slow and deliberate. Like he’s struggling to put his thoughts into words.

“I do. But these are Hrym pine needles,” Claude points out.

“Oh,” Dimitri frowns. He doesn’t say anything after that.

For a moment Claude just stares at Dimitri, curious, until he finally connects the dots. Dimitri had thought these were Almyran Pines. He’d attempted to brew Claude a pot of tea because he’d thought he was making Claude one of his favorite teas. Even five years and a rather severe mental illness later, he’s remembered.

It’s surprisingly sweet.

Of course, it also means that Claude is now going to have to drink the bitter monstrosity that Dimitri’s created, lest it seem like he doesn’t appreciate the kind gesture.

Damnit.

“Thank you, Dimitri,” he finally says, giving Dimitri a short, encouraging nod as he tentatively takes a sip. Yup, bitter as hell.

He drinks it all anyways.

A few hours later, he’s half-asleep by the fire when he feels the gentle weight of Dimitri’s cloak being placed over him. It smells awful, but it’s _so_ warm.

He loves it.

\--

Dimitri has good days. Days where he recognizes Claude, where he’s responsive, where he quietly speaks to Dalia when he believes them alone, and even occasionally speaks a word or two to Claude himself.

Dimitri also has bad days. Days spent trapped in his own mind, barely eating, barely drinking, mumbling incessantly to the ghosts that only he can see.

Claude’s already learning to live with both. He cherishes the good days, of course, the ones where Dimitri’s relative lucidity makes him a rather agreeable companion. But the bad days are just that—days—and eventually there will be a break in them. There always is.

To be honest, the most difficult part of being trapped in the wilderness isn’t survival. It isn’t even Dimitri.

It’s having too much time alone with his thoughts.

Claude’s always been a thinker. A doer. But he’s never been in a situation where he can’t keep himself occupied. There are no books to read, no people to annoy, no knowledge to pursue. Dalia can’t talk and Dimitri simply won’t, which means it’s left to Claude to try to entertain himself.

And when left to himself his thoughts wander, completely beyond his control.

He can’t stop replaying Gronder in his head, over and over again. He questions every decision he made. Wonders if he was actually meant to die on that field alongside his comrades. Maybe they both were, he and Dimitri.

Maybe they’re living on borrowed time, having cheated death together.

He can’t keep this up.

At least Dimitri’s wounds are finally healing. He still doesn’t move around much on bad days, but on good days he’ll fetch fresh water and tend to the fire. When he can manage, he’ll even gather smaller pieces of firewood—Claude’s been strict on limiting how much weight he carries, lest he snap more of his sutures.

A little over two weeks after their arrival, and Claude’s finally able to remove all of Dimitri’s stitches. He still needs to take it easy, of course, but now he can begin moving around more, can begin to explore the area some.

It’s liberating in a way, to know that Dimitri can now, for the most part, take care of his own basic needs.

It’s also terrifying, because the stronger Dimitri gets, the more likely he is to start roaming. Everything with Dimitri is guesswork. How much pain he’s in, if he’s thirsty or hungry, if he’s mentally aware enough to find his way back to their campsite should he wander off. Claude doesn’t want to treat him like an invalid because he’s not one, but it’s also scary, not knowing the exact extent of Dimitri’s ability to care for himself.

And so Claude’s stressed. Stressed from the boredom, stressed from the thought of the future, stressed from the loneliness and stressed from the fear of the Dimitri unknown.

He _needs_ to do something.

It’s while he’s sitting on Dimitri’s favorite rock, sunbathing and scratching at the stupidly irritating stubble on his face that’s beginning to grow in and is slowly driving him mad, that he finally makes a decision.

If he’s remembering correctly, there’s a very small village at the base of the mountains in the Hrym region. To get there and back he’d have to leave before sunrise, but it’d give him the opportunity to gather as much intel about the war’s current trajectory as possible, to restock their supplies, and to buy some soap and a razor because between having to smell Dimitri and the damnable, incessant itch on his face, he’s about to kill someone. Probably himself.

Dimitri should be fine alone for a day. There’s still a bit of dried meat left, Claude’s been reliably foraging for fruits and seeds the entire time, and Dimitri is clearly capable of boiling his own water and tending to the fire. Claude will most assuredly be back before nightfall, and Dalia will be there for companionship should Dimitri need it. It should be okay.

He’s still nervous as he plans, however.

He’ll need to disguise himself as best he can, which is already a bit of an undertaking given how little they have at their disposal. It’s unlikely he’ll be recognized, given how remote the place is, but he can’t take any risks. Not when Hrym is on the border between the Leicester Alliance and Adrestia.

Dimitri gets antsy, once Claude explains his plan. And come the next morning, Dimitri seems rather nervous as he watches Claude dress.

Claude takes the time to weave braids into his hair, before wrapping his hair in the bright, silky yellow of his shoulder cape. He’s forced to leave his coat behind—it’s unfortunately just too iconic—leaving him with only his thin, white undershirt tucked inside his pants. Thankfully, it’s an unseasonably warm day.

He uses his black, Leicester Alliance emblem as a sash, making sure to cover the symbol as he wraps it around his waist. It’s not perfect, and anyone that knows him would instantly recognize him, but it’s hopefully enough to remain incognito at the village. 

He fills one of his small bags with dried meat and fruit for his travels, slides the money he’d pilfered from Dimitri weeks ago into his pocket, and makes sure to drink an entire potful of water. He can’t take the pot with him since Dimitri needs it, but he also needs to be hydrated enough to make it to the village. He has his map, his compass, and his hunting knife all ready, as he makes to leave.

Both Dimitri and Dalia look _so sad_ as they watch him prepare to go.

“Guys, I promise I’ll be back tonight. You’ll both be fine without me for a few hours,” Claude chastises, even as he has to hold back his smile.

It’s kind of nice, feeling wanted for once.

He does one final, double check before leaving the cave. They’ll be fine alone, he tells himself, even as he worriedly heads into the woods.

He forces himself to respect Dimitri’s capabilities and instead focuses on the day’s plan as he treks through the forest. He has a list in his mind of things to purchase, as well as an idea of how he plans to approach information gathering. He has nothing on him he can pretend to sell, so a peddler is, unfortunately, an unrealistic cover story.

He’ll have to be a performer, then. Ugh.

To warm up for his impromptu debut, he sings quietly to himself as he travels through the forest. He’s no Manuela, but he can carry a tune decently enough, and he _is_ a fairly entertaining person, from what he’s been told.

He’s halfway to the village, still humming along, when he feels it.

Someone—or some _thing_ —is watching him.

His fingers slip immediately to his knife as he pauses, glancing around to carefully observe his surroundings.

It doesn’t feel malicious, but Claude _hates_ being watched, because there’s just no knowing when intent might change. For a few minutes he just stands there at attention, trying to figure out who—or what—is staring at him.

The insects around him continue to sing, completely unthreatened by Claude’s new stalker. It could be a large animal, or perhaps even a person. A hunter, maybe. Claude gives it another few minutes, grip still firm on his knife, before continuing.

His steps are faster, now, and he no longer sings, opting not to draw any unnecessary attention to himself. He needs to be able to hear anything coming, now that he knows he’s not alone.

He makes it to the town with no issue.

It’s a relief once he can slip in with the villagers, even as a slew of curious eyes settle on him. The villagers are—expectedly—excited to see a new face.

Fake smiles come easy for Claude, as he heads towards the nearest villager. “Good day, ma’am! I was hoping you might be able to guide me towards the local supply store of this lovely little town. I’m a traveling performer, you see, passing through and in dire need of a few essentials.”

“A performer, here? Oh my, I can’t remember the last time we’ve had a new face come through!” the woman smiles, delighted.

“Franzisko von Gurley, at your service,” Claude grins, taking a moment to give his new friend a dramatic bow.

She giggles in delight as a pair of children run over, shouting hellos. This time, Claude’s grin is honest. He can’t help but love kids. More curious little ones arrive, one after another, until he’s suddenly got quite the audience going.

He honestly needed this. Needed a reminder in the good of humanity. Needed to remember how much _joy_ there is to be found in living.

The children ask him to sing for them.

He obliges.

He happily teaches them all some of those silly sea shanties, and within the hour, he’s unleashed a screaming army of children running around playing pirates, battling amongst themselves with sticks and shouts as they race through the village.

Eventually, once the children are distracted and the adults forced to get back to work, he’s finally able to head towards the market, smile ever-present.

It’s not really a market, if he’s being honest, mostly just a couple of tiny shops in a row. But it’s more than enough, and so he immediately slips inside the nearest building to check out their wares. As fun as it is to play with the locals, he needs to get back to Dimitri and Dalia. He has no idea how they’ll respond if he doesn’t come back on time, but he has to imagine not well, if his departure had been any indication. 

His first concern is the razor and soap. He _will_ get Dimitri clean, whether Dimitri likes it or not. 

And he _will_ get rid of his damnably itchy stubble as well.

Once those are acquired, his next quest is to get two waterskins, so that he and Dimitri will no longer be constantly attached to their water pot. He also replenishes what he’s used from his emergency kit and grabs a small vial of cooking oil and a few spices before the scent of the neighboring bakery lures his attention away. It smells _divine_.

He’s opening the door before he even realizes it.

“Welcome!” the young shopkeep smiles, glancing up from the fresh stack of bread he’s slipping onto the display.

“It smells like heaven in here,” Claude says immediately, earning a hardy laugh as his mouth begins to water.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the young worker smiles, brushing his hands off on his apron. “So how can I help you… Franzisko was it?”

“Hm? Oh! Yes, Franzisko,” Claude coughs, eyes still staring at the bread and sweets and dried meats and _is that fresh cheese?_

His stomach rumbles.

The shopkeep laughs again, disappearing below the case for a moment before reappearing, a thick, steaming sweet roll in hand. He wraps it in a napkin before stepping around the counter, holding it out to Claude. “On the house, my friend.”

Claude stares in confusion. “I can pay,” he says immediately, even as he eyes wantingly at the bread.

“You see that girl over there? Little one aggressively forcing everyone to walk the plank?” the shopkeep asks, pointing out the window at the hoard of screaming children. “That’s my little sister, and this is the most fun I’ve seen her have in months. Years, maybe. So please, just take it. And if you want to buy anything more, I’ll take your money for that instead.”

Claude stares at the bread, then finally at the shopkeep, trying to get a read on him. To figure out his angle. Determine whether he’s recognized Claude. Hell, the bread might even be poisoned if he has. They’re technically in Empire territory, after all.

But there’s nothing but kindness there.

Reluctantly, Claude takes it, bringing the steaming bread to his mouth before taking a bite. It’s full of piping hot, _delicious_ Noa jam. He might actually cry.

It takes every ounce of willpower he has in him to not eat the entire thing. But he tucks half of it away—it won’t taste near as good in a few hours, but Dimitri could use the boost just as much as Claude.

The shopkeep gives him a curious look.

“I’m meeting up with a friend,” Claude explains easily.

“Good. I’d hate to think you ended up out here in the middle of nowhere all alone,” the shopkeep hums, before quietly returning to his work.

Claude takes the time to go through everything the shop has to offer, eventually ordering strips of seasoned meats, two small loaves of bread, and two bags of fresh cheese curds, one for both him and Dimitri. It’s not the most high-end cheese, but Claude can’t afford to go premium at the moment, and as far as he can recall, Dimitri likes all cheese anyways.

He also gets both waterskins filled, free-of-charge. His walk back will be much more tolerable, now.

He takes a moment to ask the shopkeep about the war, but the young man can’t give him much. Apparently he doesn’t leave the town much, and is too focused on raising his little sister to keep abreast with the latest gossip. A kind man, but unfortunately a dead end.

As Claude steps back outside, he eyes the local inn. What he wouldn’t give to sleep in a clean, warm bed for a night. But no. The other two are waiting.

He turns his attention on rooting out information. While he doesn’t expect the town to be that aware of the outside world, someone has to be delivering supplies to them. Which means that someone, somewhere in this town, should know how things are progressing with the war. He just needs to figure out exactly who that person is.

It’s when he’s wandering that he feels it again.

Those eyes.

Claude’s hand carefully slips down to his knife, grasping around the handle as he continues his seemingly nonchalant stroll through the town. He pauses to talk to an older man sweeping his front porch, but that lead turns out to be a dead one as well.

As his jaunt continues, he can feel himself being watched. He hates it.

In an attempt to ditch whoever’s following him, he takes a sharp turn between two small buildings, hoping to come out on the other end.

There is no other end.

Claude jerks back around, about to bail right back out of the alleyway, when a knife comes out to meet him. So this is whose been following him.

He freezes before taking a slow, careful step back as his pursuer steps into view, trapping him.

Despite the dangerous position, Claude’s not particularly scared. He’s in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Everyone clearly knows everyone here, and it’s unlikely that there are any crime networks in the area. This man is presumably just a petty thief-of-a-local, ready to rob the only interloper he’s seen in months. Nothing Claude can’t handle, really.

“Come now, is this _really_ necessary?” Claude asks, glancing briefly back at the alleyway behind him. There’s nothing he can grab to try to defend himself. Heck, there’s nothing at all besides a dumpster. “I have nothing worth stealing, you know, unless you’d like a half-eaten loaf of bread.”

“You really think I don’t recognize you?” the man hisses, shaky hand gripping the knife hard, eyes wild.

Immediately, Claude realizes the man is likely on some type of stimulant.

“Recognize me? Oh, you must mean from one of my many fantastical performances! I am rather famous back in the Alliance, I’ll have you know. I’ve performed for the leader of the Alliance, even, back before the war started. He’s rather fond of my voice, or so I’ve been told.”

“M-Meet him? You _are_ him,” the man accuses, still trembling.

Claude’s heart plummets. How the hell had someone actually recognized him out here? This is ridiculous.

For a moment, Claude says nothing, frantically trying to determine his next course of action, before he remembers that this man is clearly unwell. It shouldn’t be that difficult to just convince him that he’s wrong; perhaps that he’s hallucinating, even. Get him back to his home and into his bed and make him believe that their whole meeting was simply a drug-induced dream.

“Me? Leader of the Alliance?” Claude snorts dramatically. “I belong on a stage, not in an army. Fighting and blood and getting my hands all dirty? No thank you. Kind of flattered you think I look like someone that important, though. He’s quite the handsome fellow, you know.”

“You’re lying!”

“Oh come now. Why would I lie? Do you _really_ think the leader of the Leicester Alliance would be wandering the mountainsides of Adrestria, visiting tiny little mountain towns in the middle of nowhere like this? Wouldn’t he, I don’t know, be trying to reconnect with the Alliance, if he were in fact still alive? That sounds far more logical to me.”

“Sh-shut up! D-Don’t lie to me! They never found your body and, and she put a bounty on your head, you know. Lots of money. Lots and _lots_ of money. I-I just gotta kill you, and, and then I’ll bring your body right to Enbarr, right to the emper–“

Claude feels the spatter across his face before he realizes what just happened.

Watches in horror as the man’s head slips away from his body, falling to the ground with a thump.

His body hits next.

Claude stares, horrified, eyes unable to look away from the headless corpse before him, crumpled in a bloody mess.

He sees Areadbhar in his peripherals first. Sees the blood dripping down the wicked curves of the massive lance, seeping into the ground. It takes another few moments for him to connect weapon to wielder, eyes slowly rising to stare at Dimitri, standing in front of the alleyway, looking completely unaffected.

He’s still shirtless, wearing only his pants, boots and cloak. He’s also silent.

Claude speaks first. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you!?” he hisses out, heart pounding. They’re in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere where literally _everyone_ knows everyone. They’re now both standing in an alley with a dead body.

They need to dispose of the body and get out of there— _now_ —before people figure out something’s wrong.

“Did you really think I couldn’t take care of myself? Did you follow me _all the way here_? I was fine, Dimitri! I could have handled it myself!” Claude growls, having to use every ounce of self-control not to draw attention to them by shouting at the idiot in front of him.

At least Dimitri has the good sense to look slightly ashamed, now.

“I’m not touching his body. _You_ get to dump it in the dumpster,” Claude orders, frustrated as he goes to hold open the dumpster’s lid. “What is wrong with you, I swear.”

Dimitri looks like he’s going to say something, but he decides against it, instead first picking up the head, tossing it inside, before grabbing the body and doing the same.

There’s nothing they can do about the blood on the ground, or on Areadbhar.

So instead, Claude silently slips around Dimitri, peering out around the edges of the alley, making sure it’s clear before gesturing for Dimitri to follow. They’ll have to move quick, and to head immediately back into the woods.

There’s no doubt who’ll take the blame for a sudden murder in an otherwise sleepy little town.

Dimitri’s surprisingly stealthy—in hindsight, Claude now realizes exactly who was tracking him back in the forest—so at least they manage to make it out unseen. But now they have a long, awkward trek back together, and an equally awkward night forthcoming.

About an hour in, Dimitri finally speaks. “Claude…” he starts breathily, struggling a bit to keep up with the ridiculously fast, highly annoyed pace that Claude is setting.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Claude snaps, refusing to look back.

“I—"

“I don’t want to talk to a crazy person right now, Dimitri.”

Dimitri quiets immediately, and Claude can’t help but feel slightly guilty as soon as he says it.

But damnit, he’s still mad. Dimitri has _murdered someone_. And not only that, Dimitri has prevented them from getting any information about the war’s progress. Claude’s managed to get their most important supplies, at least, but the entire situation is just horribly frustrating.

And now they have to go back to sleeping in a cave, left outside again with only their thoughts for company.

It _sucks_.

It’s approaching evening when they finally make it back to their campsite, and Claude is immediately accosted by Dalia. “Oh you poor thing,” Claude coos, as she rubs her face desperately against his. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone, beautiful,” he says, giving Dimitri a pointed look as he runs his hands soothing along her side.

Dimitri walks silently around them, heading towards the cave entrance, going for the pot.

Claude suddenly realizes that he never bothered giving Dimitri his waterskin. Oh.

Claude follows—not because he wants to talk to Dimitri, but because he needs to grab his ascot and mirror so he can wash up down at the river. One, he needs to shave, and two, _someone_ splattered blood all over his face earlier, so he needs to clean himself up.

Also, he needs to figure out how he’s going to convince Dimitri to wash up as well. He’ll get to that once he’s finally clean himself, however.

For a brief moment he watches Dimitri work at the fire—without anyone around to tend to it, it’s died. Claude almost offers to help because building a fire can be difficult, but Dimitri seems fairly adept at it. In hindsight, while Dimitri’s a prince, it would make sense that everyone in Faerghus, from top down, would know how to make a fire. Faerghus’s climate is cruel and unforgiving.

Claude opts to leave him to it, then, dropping off the fresh supplies he’s purchased before heading to the water with mirror, razor and soap in hand. He removes his boots and socks, setting them aside so he can sit on one of the rocks with his feet dangling in the water.

The water is still cool, but given the time of year, it’s far warmer than it would normally be, so he can’t complain too much.

Once he’s settled, he starts working on his face. He hasn’t looked at himself in a mirror since they arrived. He looks like shit. Not only is his facial hair an unruly mess, but his skin has a sallow undertone and there are heavy, dark bags under his eyes. Two of those issues he can’t fix, but at least one he can.

Before he starts, he glances back at the campsite. The fire is going, now, but Dimitri is nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t worry about it, instead just nodding at Dalia as she comes to join him with a happy trill.

Normally, when he shaves, he uses fairly high-end products. He likes to keep his skin supple using Almyran oils, preventing any redness, itchiness or dryness. He’d never normally use a simple bar of soap, but the small town didn’t have anything high-end available, and he couldn’t have afforded anything fancy regardless. At this point, he’s just happy to get rid of the itching.

It’s completely unfair that Dimitri has the hair growth of a 13-year-old.

Actually no, that’s a lie. Claude had more facial hair at 13 than Dimitri does at 24.

He wraps the bar of soap in his ascot so that if he accidentally drops it in the water it’s not gone forever, immediately washing off his face. It feels _so_ good to finally be rid of the dried blood, sweat and dirt. Once that’s done, he lathers his face once more, before starting the slow, methodical process of shaving. It’s much harder with such a tiny mirror, but there’s something comforting in the familiarity of the motion.

Once he’s finished, he sets the razor aside, turning his attention on undoing all the braids in his hair.

He’s in the zone when Dalia trills, attention shifting over to her. “What’s up, pretty?” he asks, following her gaze behind him.

Dimitri’s standing there quietly, looking almost… nervous? It’s always hard to tell what Dimitri’s feeling nowadays.

“Oh,” Claude frowns, waiting for Dimitri to say something.

Dimitri doesn’t speak, instead pulling out a large bouquet of wild, white flowers from behind his back, presenting them awkwardly to Claude.

Claude stares.

He’s… he’s really not sure what to say.

Eventually, he settles on, “did you _seriously_ go pick me ‘I’m sorry I killed a man in front of you’ flowers?”

Embarrassment flushes Dimitri’s cheeks as his hand drops, bouquet hanging limp at his side as he looks away.

With a quiet sigh, Claude rises, moving to carefully take the flowers out of Dimitri’s hand. Now that he can get a better look at them, he realizes what they are. “Chamomile?” he asks, surprised.

Dimitri nods, still refusing to meet Claude’s eyes.

“Where did you even find these? I’ve been wandering these woods for weeks now and I had no idea there were any growing near us.”

“M’sorry…” Dimitri finally mumbles.

Claude wants to stay mad. He has a completely, absolutely justifiable reason to be angry at Dimitri. A ton of them, really.

He can’t do it, though.

Claude sighs, gently setting the flowers on his rock. “I’ll make us a pot of tea, tonight.”

Dimitri nods.

“You know, if you _really_ want to apologize, there’s actually something you could do for me.”

Dimitri stares, curious.

Carefully, Claude reaches out, gently taking Dimitri’s right hand in his own.

He takes a step back.

Confused, Dimitri tentatively follows.

Claude takes another step back before suddenly, roughly, yanking Dimitri towards the river. Dalia trills in excitement at the sudden movement.

Dimitri shouts as they both go plummeting into the water, while Claude laughs the entire way down. Immediately, Dimitri tries to scramble away, waterlogged cloak and all, but Claude latches his legs around Dimitri’s waist, holding firm. “Don’t you dare!” Claude yells, still laughing.

Dimitri looks like he’s about to fling Claude into the Netherworld. He honestly probably could, if he wanted to. But for as angry as he is at being dunked into the river, he doesn’t seem eager to accidentally injure Claude.

“Stop giving me that look! You do realize you’re not _actually_ a giant cat, right? A bath is not going to hurt you!”

Dimitri scrabbles for footing on the slimy rocks, attempting to stand, Claude and all.

Claude suddenly shifts his hips, hard, attempting to knock Dimitri off-balance once more. “Oil wrestling is a thing in Almyra, you know. I’ve won against men twice my size using leverage, and don’t think I won’t use it on you, too!”

“Claude…” Dimitri hisses, looking both angry and torn.

Claude flips him anyways, grinning smugly.

When Dimitri finally manages to sit up, Claude and all, he looks like an oversized swamp rat, tangled hair hanging like a curtain in his face, sticking to everything.

At first, Claude almost laughs. But then suddenly he realizes something’s missing. “Oh shit!” he gasps, immediately releasing his hold on Dimitri’s waist as he scrambles around, desperately searching. Eventually he sees is, floating away, legs moving on instinct as he races through the water after it.

Finally he catches it, heart pounding as he holds the eyepatch tight in his hand. “I am _so_ sorry,” he gasps out as he turns around.

It’s the first time he’s seen Dimitri’s eye. Or well, what’s left of it, anyways.

As he crawls back, he wants to ask what happened. He doesn’t.

If Dimitri ever wants him to know, Dimitri will tell him.

Dimitri hasn’t moved—he must have finally accepted his fate—as Claude makes it back, offering up the eyepatch.

Silently, Dimitri takes it, eye looking down at it through his mop of wet hair.

Claude has to resist the urge to touch the scarring along Dimitri’s bad eye. He wonders if it still aches. Wonders if the entire eye itself is gone, or if it’s just scarred shut. He wants to ask all about it.

“Can I please wash your hair, now?” he asks instead.

Dimitri doesn’t answer, but the slow shut of his eye and hang of his head seems agreement enough.

Claude heads back to the rock, grabbing his ascot and the soap. When he returns to Dimitri, he first removes Dimitri’s cloak, then his boots, bringing both back to the rock. Once that’s done, he takes a seat on his knees behind Dimitri.

Dimitri’s hair is completely uneven, as though he’s been hacking his own hair off in chunks using his weapon rather than taking the time to get it properly cut. Up close, everything about him feels neglected. His back is covered in scars. Some, Claude presumes come from Duscur, but the others? He has no clue. All Dimitri’s ribs and vertebrae are extremely visible from behind, and he looks so deceptively small, without the heft of his cloak to hide behind.

It’s all so sad.

Claude doesn’t say anything about it, though, instead lathering the soap in his hand so he can run his fingers through Dimitri’s hair, gently working at the knots. While Claude has done his best to clean his body and brush his hair over these last few weeks, Dimitri has not.

It takes patience and determination, as Claude works out every single terrible knot, careful not to tug on those soft, silky locks.

Dimitri has deceptively nice hair. Once detangled, it’s smooth and soft under Claude’s fingertips. It would probably hold a braid beautifully.

With Dimitri’s hair finally clean, Claude moves onto his back and arms. It’s a good thing, really. Dimitri has only allowed the absolute, bare minimum of contact between them thus far. So while Claude has obviously seen his healed wounds—someone had to remove the sutures, after all—he’s never gotten a good look at them under the sun.

The previously infected wound has finally sealed, though it’s left behind a rather horrid looking scar. While Claude has a few scars himself, they’re nothing like the map that is Dimitri’s body. It’s like looking at the night’s sky; there are entire constellations of trauma etched into Dimitri’s skin.

“Claude…?”

It’s only the quiet, confused sound of Dimitri’s voice that makes Claude realize he’s been tracing his finger along those scars. “S-Sorry,” he chokes out, quickly returning to scrubbing down Dimitri’s back.

It’s silent as he works, until eventually he hands off the soap so that Dimitri can wash his front. While Dimitri does that, Claude leaves to go Dimitri’s cloak, heading back into the water and doing his best to scrub it clean.

When Dimitri’s finished, Claude takes back the soap, stripping off the rest of his own clothes so he can scrub everything down. At this point they’re both soaked through anyways, so he might as well take the opportunity to wash what he can. He offers to do Dimitri’s as well, surprised when Dimitri nods, stripping down and handing off his clothing.

Claude forces himself not to stare, instead quietly taking Dimitri’s clothes and getting back to work.

For a few minutes Dimitri just watches him–Claude’s unsure whether Dimitri’s watching _him_ , or just what he’s doing. He doesn’t ask, though.

Finally, Dimitri opts to collect his boots, heading back to the cave barefoot. He returns a few minutes later with Areadbhar, taking the time to clean the dried blood from his weapon while Claude works on their clothing.

This is the most they’ve interacted in their time together. Up until now, they’ve always gone their separate ways: Dimitri wherever his ghosts desire, Claude wherever he needs to ensure their survival.

It’s comfortable.

Maybe they needed this. Needed to come to a head, needed to clash, to let out some pent-up emotion and maybe finally find some mutual peace.

When Claude finishes, he gathers up all their sopping clothing and heads back to their campsite, Dalia in tow. The ropes are still tied from when he’d been drying bandages on a rotation, so at least they have somewhere to hang their clothes.

Dimitri follows shortly thereafter, bringing with him Areadbhar, the flowers, the mirror and Claude’s razor as Claude carefully arranges all their clothing. It’s only as the sun begins to set that he realizes what a grave mistake he’s made.

It was _probably_ not the best idea to soak all their clothing right before sunset. It’s going to be one cold, naked night for the both of them. Though at least he’d forgotten his jacket, so he’ll have something he can huddle under.

Once Claude finishes, he moves to join Dimitri and Dalia by the fire, grabbing his coat to drape over his shoulders as he takes a seat on the deerskin rug alongside Dimitri. Dimitri already has the water boiling, and so Claude works on beheading all the flowers so that they can steep some fresh chamomile tea.

It’s after Claude tosses the flowers into the water that he remembers his purchases. “Oh!” he exclaims, moving to dig through his bag for the half-loaf of sweet bread. “For you,” he explains, offering it up to Dimitri.

“Hm?” Dimitri stares, gently taking it.

“I ate my half while it was fresh. But seriously, eat it. You clearly need it,” Claude jokes, gently nudging at Dimitri’s protruding ribs with his elbow. “Plus, before you try to offer me half anyways, I have another loaf of bread. Two, actually.”

Dimitri frowns but nods, taking a careful bite of the bread.

“Good, yeah?” Claude asks.

Dimitri nods. He doesn’t seem enthused, exactly, but he does devour the entire thing, so Claude considers it a win regardless.

Next, Claude hands Dimitri his bag of cheese curds. Now _that_ gets Dimitri excited, immediately shoving a few into his mouth.

Claude has to hold back a laugh—Dimitri looks like an oversized mouse, both cheeks stuffed full of cheese. Claude eats a few of his own curds before breaking into the dried meats.

They split the chamomile tea. It’s nice.

Claude’s leaning back against Dalia a few hours later, starting to doze off by the fire, when Dimitri suddenly speaks.

“He… he said he would bring you to _her_ ,” Dimitri spits out, knees huddled to his chest as he stares at the fire.

Claude slowly sits up, confused for a moment, turning to stare at Dimitri in curiosity. He’s shaking.

“She has… she has taken _everything_ from me, Claude. I will not allow her to have you, too.”

Dimitri doesn’t elaborate further.

Claude doesn’t ask him to. Instead, Claude just watches him. Watches him tremble, watches those strong arms wrap around those increasingly bony knees. Watches that haunted blue eye stare at the flames, seeing things that aren’t really there.

“We should try to sleep soon, Dimitri,” he finally says. He’s not sure how Dimitri will respond to sleeping naked next to one another, but given the situation, Dimitri shouldn’t be sleeping alone on the cold side of a wyvern. Faerghus blood or not, it’s too dangerous.

Thankfully, Dimitri doesn’t fight him for once. Maybe he’s wary of letting Claude out of his sight for the night.

They sleep back-to-back: Claude facing Dalia, Dimitri facing the flames.

\--

When Claude wakes the next morning, he’s alone. He’s warm, at least, with the fire freshly stoked and Dimitri’s now-dry cloak draped over him.

It’s easily the best he’s slept since they got there. He’s concerned, however, by the absence of both Dalia and Dimitri, and so while part of him kind of wants to curl up and snooze just a bit longer, the wary part of him forces himself to rise.

There are two options for Dimitri’s absence; either it’s a very good day, and he’s taken it upon himself to go out and gather wood and the like, or it’s a very _bad_ day, and who knows what the hell he’s up to.

Claude’s leaning towards the former, but also not willing to risk the latter. And so he rises, stretching out his achy limbs before going about his morning routine.

He finishes off the pot of water, taking a moment to brush his teeth with some of the mint before heading outside to grab his dried clothing. It’s a pleasant change of events, being able to put on relatively clean clothes. Almost rejuvenating, in a way.

Once outside, he can immediately see where Dalia’s has gotten off to; she’s down by the water, looking rather excitable.

Given her broken wing, that’s not a particularly good sign.

It’s been awhile since her last meal, however, and so Claude’s not really surprised that she’s taken to hungrily eyeing the river. He’s tried fishing a few times, given the season, however he hasn’t had much luck with his lures. The water’s just slightly too fast and the lures keep getting trapped on the rocks.

“Little miss,” he calls out at her, slipping on his boots and heading over. “I better not see a _single_ one of your scales get in that water.”

She gives him a quick look of acknowledgement but then turns her attention right back to the water.

Claude frowns. Rude.

It’s only as he gets closer that he realizes just what has her so fascinated.

“Dimitri, what are you doing!?” he shouts, because Dimitri is standing smack in the middle of one of the river’s rapids, hyper-focused on the water around him.

Claude immediately sprints towards them, because Dimitri in a good mood should not equate _Dimitri standing alone in the middle of a rushing river_ , and it’s possible that he’s guessed very, very incorrectly about Dimitri’s mental state today. As he reaches the embankment, however, he immediately—barely—dodges something large flying right at him.

“What the—!?” Claude gasps, only for Dalia to trill excitably.

He glances over at her, immediately realizing what it is.

It’s a fish. An Airmid pike, to be precise, that is now being eaten alive by his absolutely giddy wyvern.

For a moment he just stares, confused.

Then, he looks up at Dimitri. “Did you just throw a _fish_ at me?” he asks incredulously, just in time to dodge another one. Dalia gets right to work on it.

Claude’s both horrified and fascinated all at the same time. The water is stupidly cold this early in the morning, and yet Dimitri is out there in only his underclothes, boots and pants folded neatly on their rock. “Is this a Faerghus thing? Please tell me fishing with your bare hands is a Faerghus thing,” Claude asks, trying not to laugh—or perhaps cry—at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Dimitri doesn’t respond, too hyperfused on his task, as Dalia trills and huffs away.

By the fourth fish, she seems to be getting full.

By the sixth, she just stares at it, disinterested. Claude reaches down to grab it before it can flop back into the water; if she doesn’t want to eat it, he and Dimitri will gladly share.

Dimitri finally glances over, looking surprised. “Claude…?”

“Trying to kill me with a fish, your princeliness?” Claude grins, holding up the flopping fish.

“Sorry…” Dimitri frowns.

“No apologies necessary! I’ve been eyeing these fish for weeks now, you know. And you even saved me from having to go hunting again for this one,” he explains, tilting his head towards Dalia. “Do me a favor, though, and get the heck out of that water. I didn’t drag you off a battlefield only for you to freeze yourself to death a few weeks later.”

“Oh…” Dimitri mumbles, as though just realizing where he is.

Carefully, he begins wading towards the shore, while Claude heads back to camp with his fish. He doesn’t want to leave it to suffer any longer than necessary.

While Claude works on cleaning the fish, Dimitri eventually wanders back, undergarments in hand, wearing only his pants. It’s… it’s not much better than him being naked, honestly, given how form-fitting the clothing beneath his armor is.

“Go grab your cloak and warm up by the fire,” Claude orders, trying desperately to focus on his task and ignore the accidental free show.

He’s excited for the fish. He didn’t buy a lot of seasoning, but he did manage to get some, at least. Between the spices and the cooking oil, along with one of the loaves of bread, this is going to be one of the most delicious things they’ve had out here.

Eventually, Dimitri wanders back over in his cloak, pine needles in hand.

“Hm?” Claude asks, while using the backside of his knife to descale the fish.

“How much?” Dimitri asks quietly.

“For tea? About half of that should be plenty.”

Dimitri nods, carefully splitting the pine needles between his palms before retreating back to the fire.

Claude works on spearing the entire fish on a stick before lathering it in oil and seasoning, heading back to join Dimitri. He props the fish up to cook before retreating back to the river to wash his hands and knife off.

As he’s cleaning up, the first sound of thunder cracks in the distance. “Crap,” he groans. They’ve mostly evaded bad weather since Gronder, but it looks like that luck will no longer be holding.

He dries his hands on his pants and tucks his knife away before immediately heading back to the cave. “Keep an eye on the fish, Dima, I’m going to grab some more firewood. Once the skies open, who knows how long we’ll be trapped inside.”

Dimitri glances up from the fire, giving Claude a quick nod as he drags his cloak in tighter. He must finally be feeling the cold.

While Dimitri warms back up, Claude rushes to stockpile wood, corralling Dalia back into the cave in-between trips. He doesn’t want her bandage getting wet should she accidentally get caught out in a downpour.

Claude risks a final trip out for mint and some more pine, only to feel the first, fat drop of rain smack at his face. Groaning, he sprints back, catching a few seconds in the sudden downpour before ducking into the cave. Immediately he goes to join Dimitri and Dalia, pleased when Dimitri silently holds open one end of his cloak.

“At least I only got damp,” Claude laughs, climbing underneath. He’s a greedy man and he’ll take the warmth.

As they share the fish and tea, it quickly becomes apparent that Dimitri is not a fan of thunderstorms. Each boom causes him to tense nervously, and Claude takes to carefully— _gently_ —rubbing Dimitri’s upper back each time he jolts at the sound.

For a while they just sit together, quiet.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Claude finally says, eyeing the fire. He’s still feeling that lingering guilt, especially after Dimitri nearly froze himself feeding all three of them. An apology is the least he can do.

“Hm?”

“I called you crazy, and I’m sorry.”

“Why? It’s true,” Dimitri shrugs, shrinking again as another loud crack of thunder rattles the ground near them.

Claude frowns, hand idling between Dimitri’s tense shoulder blades. “You don’t deserve to be spoken to like that, Dimitri. Not by me, not by anyone.”

“Mm…” Dimitri hums lightly, eye drifting shut. He clearly doesn’t agree.

Claude doesn’t press. He feels better having apologized, whether Dimitri cares or not.

It’s a long day, trapped in the cave as they are. The thunderstorms come and go, but the rain feels eternal, refusing to let-up even as day shifts into evening shifts into night.

Claude’s dozing off on the deerskin rug when he feels Dimitri slip away, leaving behind his cloak as a blanket for Claude. Claude thinks nothing of it—Dimitri likely just has to go to the bathroom—opting to snuggle sleepily into Dalia’s flank.

Twenty minutes later, and Claude’s starting to worry a bit.

Thirty minutes in, and Claude finally hears Dimitri’s voice. It’s a relief.

At least until he realizes Dimitri’s not speaking to him.

“Soon, I promise. Soon, I will go to Enbarr and I will bring you her head. Finally, you shall all be free. Just please… _please_ allow me to stay with him a little longer. I beg of you, just let me know a few more days of peace...”

Claude frowns.

When Dimitri eventually returns to the fire a few hours later, Claude pretends he’s been sleeping the whole time. He doesn’t move when Dimitri carefully slips behind him.

Dimitri’s _freezing_.

Subtly, Claude attempts to shift closer. To share his body heat as best he can. Dimitri could use it.

To his surprise, Dimitri doesn’t pull away.

A half-hour later, Claude feels the tentative, nervous weight of Dimitri’s arm settling over his side.

And another half-hour after that, he can feel the gentle, even staccato of Dimitri’s breath ruffling his hair. It’s the first time Claude’s actually seen Dimitri sleep.

Good.

He needs the rest.

\--

They need to leave soon. _Very_ soon.

It’s bad enough that Claude is going stir-crazy without any intel on the war’s trajectory, but now he’s realizing that eventually, Dimitri will disappear.

And knowing Dimitri, he won’t tell Claude when. He’ll just be gone one day, on a suicide march to Enbarr following the angry whims of his vengeful ghosts.

Now’s a good time, anyways. Dimitri’s ensured that Dalia’s been fed, they have a decent stock of supplies going, and while Dimitri isn’t completely healed—who knows if he ever truly will be—he’s doing as well as they could have hoped.

The only problem is that there’s only one land route from here to Almyra: through Fodlan’s Locket.

Claude will be forced to travel first through Ordelia territory, then Goneril. Shame sours his stomach at the thought—he’ll never be able to face Holst again—but without a wyvern capable of flight, they’ll have to take the long and arduous route.

When he brings up leaving, Dimitri looks wary. It’s understandable, but it no longer feels like Claude has the luxury of time on his side. He doesn’t want Dimitri to go get himself killed, but asking him not to seek out his revenge will accomplish absolutely nothing.

Distracting him from his goals, however, just might.

Thankfully, Dimitri doesn’t ask many questions, even when Claude explains that he has a plan.

It’s dawned on Claude recently that the amount of trust Dimitri has in him is absolutely staggering. It’s almost overwhelming, really, because if there’s one thing Claude’s used to, it’s having his intentions questioned. _Constantly._

After a lifetime of being called deceitful and conniving, of being deemed untrustworthy by the people of Fodlan and Almyra alike, to have someone trust in him so intrinsically, so _wholly_ , is… it’s a lot. 

Especially when Claude’s absolutely planning on intentionally withholding their route for as long as possible, guiding Dimitri as far from Enbarr as he can. He can’t stop Dimitri from going, of course, but he sure can try to stop him from wanting to.

There’s a guilt that comes with not being transparent, but if Dimitri asks, Claude _will_ tell. He doesn’t intend to lie, but he’s also not going to give up any information he doesn’t need to. He also realizes that—seemingly, anyways—Dimitri doesn’t actually _want_ to leave. He’s being pulled by his ghosts, not by his own desires.

It’s hard for Claude to personally imagine, but he’s beginning to wonder if, perhaps, being stranded in the middle of nowhere, struggling to survive together, has actually been _good_ for Dimitri. Away from the pressures of kinghood, of expectations and responsibilities, perhaps Dimitri has found some small sense of peace. It’s been constant and steady since Dimitri’s been physically able to assist, and perhaps that simple daily routine—boiling water, making tea, collecting firewood, foraging for nuts and fruits—has been mentally helping.

It’s an interesting theory, and one Claude hasn’t previously considered.

They spend the next day gathering supplies, drying herbs, collecting fruits, and preparing for extended travel.

While Dimitri hunts for nuts and seeds—they’ll hold up the longest—Claude works on planning out their route with his map and compass.

They can’t cross Myrddin, which means they’ll have to follow the Airmid into the mountains, where there are shallower waters they should be able to safely cross. Then, they’ll have to backtrack out of the mountains—Dalia is too large to comfortably traverse thick forests by foot—into Ordelia territory. From there, they should be able to follow the base of the mountain range into Goneril, heading towards Fodlan’s Locket.

Much like Myrddin, however, they can’t cross through Fodlan’s Locket, either. That’s Holst’s territory, for one, but even more importantly, they absolutely _cannot_ be seen. If Claude has a bounty on his head, then Dimitri presumably does as well. And without knowing how the war is progressing, without knowing whether the Alliance is now under Empire control or not, everywhere in Fodlan is considered dangerous for them.

It’ll be a long, grueling trek to Almyra. Claude will have to discuss it all with Dimitri along the way; he hasn’t explicitly said where they’re headed, though he’s made no attempt at hiding his heritage anymore.

When the time comes to leave, it’s oddly emotional. Of course Claude doesn’t enjoy being trapped in the wilderness in a survival situation, but in a small way, it’s become a bit like a home.

An uncomfortable, cold, somewhat lonely home, but a home nonetheless.

Dimitri is restless the night before they leave. Though he’s grown more comfortable sharing physical space with Claude, he seems antsy and exceptionally unwell once it grows dark, resorting to silently tucking Claude away in his cloak before pacing the cave like a caged lion, mumbling nervously to himself for hours on end.

Claude tries to listen, as he huddles under the cloak, but Dimitri’s words are too slurred and frenetic for him to parse.

Clade doesn’t sleep well that night. He’s afraid that perhaps he’s waited too long. Afraid that—should he close his eyes—Dimitri will be gone when they reopen.

At some point he falls asleep against his will and awakens with panic settling heavy in his chest.

But Dimitri’s still there, sitting at the cave’s entrance, watching the sun beginning to rise over the Airmid.

It’s a relief.

Claude wraps the cloak around himself before climbing to his feet, moving to stand beside Dimitri, hand resting gently along Dimitri’s bony shoulder.

“Claude…?” Dimitri turns to stare up at him, surprised at the touch.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Claude smiles, nodding towards the sunrise as he gives Dimitri’s shoulder a light squeeze.

“Yeah, beautiful…” Dimitri mumbles, tired blue eye still watching Claude. Eventually his eye shuts, head gently tilting to brush against Claude.

Idly, Claude shifts his hand, giving Dimitri a gentle, fond pet. “So, you ready to finally leave?” he asks, eyes drifting back to the sky.

“I…” Dimitri starts, eye slowly opening once again. For a few moments he just watches the sunrise, Claude’s hand still lingering in his hair, before finally—slowly—nodding.

Their morning routine is silent as they brush teeth, wash up, eat a small breakfast, and finish packing.

Claude hates to use Dalia as a glorified pack mule, but she’s far stronger than he is, and no matter how much Dimitri may offer to carry things, he’s still healing. As ridiculous as it may sound for a Blaiddyd, Dimitri is dealing with a deep, lingering frailty that can only be remedied through staunch nutrition, significant rest, and long-term care.

If left to his own devices he will absolutely push himself to collapse; and while Claude may be an utter failure of a leader post-Gronder, he’s still not going to let Dimitri run himself into the ground. He’ll lead his rag tag little group for as long as they’ll allow him—hopefully for however long it takes to ensure their collective safety.

Once they begin their trek along the river’s shore, Claude immediately regrets not buying Dimitri a shirt at the village. He’d meant to, of course, before things had went downhill so rapidly, but regardless, Dimitri’s pale skin is going to be suffering without a cave to hideout in. Claude takes a moment to wrap Dimitri’s head with his sash, attempting to block out some of the sun. It won’t be enough, but hopefully it’ll protect his remaining eye while also limiting any sunburn.

As much as Claude feels the need to rush, they take their time. He hasn’t forgotten how Dimitri had struggled to keep up on their way back from the Hrym village. And so they make sure to set up camp a few hours before sunset, allowing them plenty of time to build a comfortable fire, rehydrate, and settle in for the night.

Though the weather is warming with early summer on the horizon, nighttime is much colder without the protection of their cave; thus, they sleep huddled together by the fire, snuggled under Dimitri’s cloak.

The pattern continues for days, until they finally reach the section of the river shallow enough to safely cross.

Dalia is thrilled to finally get to play in the water—no matter how much Claude tries to stop her, her bandage is thoroughly soaked by the time they’re finished fording the river. They’re forced to break for the night so he can re-do her bandages, continuing onwards come morning.

They lie low, as they make their way through Ordelia territory.

Dreams of Lysithea plague Claude during their brief stay, and in turn motivate him to pick up the pace, desperate to escape his lingering ghosts.

It’s harrowing, what Dimitri deals with on a daily basis.

By the time they make it to Goneril territory, they’re running low on supplies. It’s risky, but there’s a traveler’s outpost en route to Fodlan’s Locket, and they need to restock if they hope to make it safely through the mountains of Fodlan’s Throat and into Almyra.

The plan is for Claude to head in, grab their supplies (including a shirt for poor Dimitri), and then slip right back out. Dimitri’s cloak is emblazoned with the Crest of Blaiddyd, he’s got a large, awkward presence, and he also has no shirt. He’s really not fit for mingling with the general population at the moment, plus, someone needs to stay with Dalia. So, it’s up to Claude.

Dimitri lingers as close to the entrance as he can without wandering into the outpost with a whole wyvern, while Claude does his best to try to blend. He makes the trip as quick as possible; they’re in Alliance territory, now, and he runs a much higher risk of being identified. And given how someone had recognized him in Hrym, Goneril is far too risky to fool around in.

He’d love to ask around, to chat about the war’s progress, but they’re too close to Almyra, to escape. He’ll have to wait until they get there to seek out news regarding Fodlan’s civil war.

He gets Dimitri’s shirt, along with some more food, extra containers for water, burn cream for Dimitri’s poor sunburnt skin, and replacements for all the supplies they’ve gone through from his kit. He doesn’t linger, immediately heading back to the outpost’s entrance, handing off Dimitri’s new shirt before tucking their supplies away in Dalia’s saddlebags.

Dimitri’s pulling on his shirt and Claude’s putting things away when a new group of travelers passes by. Instinctively, Claude steps in front of Dimitri—it won’t keep him entirely out of view, given his height, but it should hopefully prevent anyone from seeing his emblazoned cloak.

“I wonder what happens now. With the prince, the duke, and now even the emperor dead, who’s even left to lead Fodlan?”

“Does it even matter? Nothing changes for us merchants. Borders hardly even matter to begin with. Heck, this might make trade even more easy, you know?”

“Well, I suppose that’s true, but still! Aren’t you even the least bit curious? The Gloucester heir was lost at Myrddin, the Edmund girl disappeared years ago. The Ordelia heir’s passed as well. That leaves what, General Holst? But he can hardly be expected to do _everything._ We need him to protect Fodlan from those barbarians, after all.”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“About the Goneril girl.”

“The one that passed?”

“That’s the thing. Apparently, when they liberated Enbarr, they found her alive. The emperor was holding her hostage in an attempt to force General Holst’s ha—"

Claude’s moving before he has a chance to react. “What do you mean they found her alive!?” he gasps, rushing over to the confused group, grabbing the arm of the man speaking.

He can hear Dimitri mumble something behind him but he ignores it, heart pounding out of his chest. Hilda is alive.

Hilda is alive.

Hilda is _alive_.

“E-Excuse me?” the merchant asks, staring at Claude with a mix of annoyance and a twinge of fear.

“They found the Goneril girl alive, being held captive in the prisons of Enbarr,” one of the female merchants explains, giving Claude a wary look. The group takes a careful, mindful step away from him.

He must seem absolutely insane, but also _Hilda is alive._

He could cry.

He might actually _be_ crying, for all he can’t see and can’t think and can’t breathe and feels as though he’s about to collapse to his knees. “We-we’re friends,” he finally chokes out, releasing the poor traveler so he can take a disoriented step back, turning towards Dimitri, green eyes wild.

Dimitri isn’t there.

“Mitya…?” he asks, glancing at Dalia in confusion as he blinks back tears.

She stares back, curious. “Where’d he go, girl?” Claude frowns, ignoring the travelers as they take his sudden distraction as an excuse to flee into the outpost. She trills—but offers no assistance—as he glances around nervously, excitement over Hilda shifting into fear over Dimitri.

“Mitya?” he calls out again, heading towards the neighboring forest, wyvern in tow. There aren’t many other places Dimitri could have gone. Claude would have seen him if he’d gone into the outpost, which means he’s headed out, not in. And leading up to the outpost is a large, long rolling field of hills; had he gone that way, he’d still be visible on the horizon.

It’s not easy, traversing the forest with a wyvern. Dalia’s big and rather clumsy on foot, but Dimitri has to be _somewhere_ nearby.

It’s Dalia’s trill that clues Claude in.

He follows her gaze to Dimitri.

He’s found a small cave. It’s much smaller than their cave at the Airmid, but it’s a cave none-the-less, nestled in the mountainside, surrounded by moss and wild shrubbery and full of massive cobwebs.

“Dimitri…?” Claude says carefully. Dimitri’s staring inside the small cave, knuckles clenched-white around Areadbhar, mumbling incessantly to himself.

“It’s a lie…”

“What—"  
  


“She is _not_ dead! It’s a lie! It _must_ be! I-I have to get their revenge, I have to—I have to save them…” Dimitri chokes out, chest heaving as he fights for air.

“I promised them her head, Claude…” he whispers, trembling.

For a moment, Claude simply stares. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s still reeling from Hilda, but…

But Dimitri really needs him to say _something_.

So he speaks. “If Edelgard’s dead, Dimitri, then haven’t they gotten their revenge? Does the means really matter?”

“I…”

Claude frowns. “The dead cling to us, Dimitri, with little regard for our lives. For our wellbeing. If we allow them, they’ll shackle us down, limiting our potential and preventing us from ever living life to the fullest. It’s up to us to take control, to do what we can with the gift we’ve been given.”

“How… how can you say that, Claude, even after Gronder?” Dimitri asks, head turning slightly, just enough to peer tiredly over his shoulder. His eye’s bloodshot and wet.

Claude pauses.

Maybe it’s unfair for him to say it after finding out Hilda’s alive. As far as Claude knows, there’s no one left for Dimitri. Claude still has a family to return to: a few survivors, even.

Dimitri is completely and utterly _alone_.

But no, it needs to be said. _Both_ of them need to hear it. They’ve both failed. They both must live with their lingering ghosts. But he refuses to believe that all their friends, their families and their loved ones would wish a lifetime of suffering upon them. He’ll never stop grieving, he’ll never forget his precious Deer, but he _will_ fight tooth and nail to ensure that a day comes where Fodlan’s Locket will be gone, where Almyra and Morfis and Fodlan and Dagda will all intermingle, trade, and thrive off their shared cultures. Where crests will no longer matter. Where every person, young and old, powerful and weak, able-bodied or not, will share equal worth.

Where every sacrifice will not have been in vain.

For his friends, for his country, for his family, for _himself_. One failed battle doesn’t have to mean a failed lifetime. He’s better than Gronder. They both are.

“Because it’s the truth, Dima,” he says, voice firm. “The dead cling to us because we allow them to. We take on their burdens out of guilt, out of fear, in a desperate attempt to sooth our own ailing hearts. But if we allow those losses to completely consume us, we end up wasting the precious life we’ve been given. It’s okay to want to achieve their dreams, it’s okay to still try to fulfill their goals, but we can’t let it consume us.”

“I…” Dimitri starts, eye gently closing as his head moves to hang in shame. “I have nothing left, Claude. Without their revenge, _I am_ _nothing_.”

Claude frowns, chest tight. He can’t make Dimitri okay. He _knows_ he can’t.

It doesn’t stop him from wanting to try.

He lets Dalia’s reins fall from his hand, taking a few steps forward, until he’s standing behind Dimitri. Tentatively, he settles his right hand on Dimitri’s shoulder.

Dimitri tenses, but doesn’t pull away, and Claude takes the non-response as a go-ahead. He’ll back off the moment Dimitri urges him to.

He lets his hand drop down, before carefully wrapping both arms around Dimitri’s slender waist, oversized cloak and all.

Claude’s not a good hugger. His parents had ensured he was strong and could take care of himself. Had raised him not to rely on kindness, on the comfort of others. It was for his own well-being, with the knowledge that he’d spend a lifetime being treated as different, and he gets that, really. He’s never doubted his parents’ love for him, has never doubted that they want the best for him, and yet…

And yet it would have been nice, he thinks, to have gotten more hugs.

Most of his siblings had either hated him or been indifferent to him growing up, and the oldest ones had been distanced by age. Had families of their own to worry about by the time he’d arrived; didn’t have time to deal with a baby born from an entirely different mother. Didn’t really care to associate much with Tiana at all.

He lets his face bury into the nape of Dimitri’s neck, into the fur of his coat and the silk of his hair. It’s all so very soft.

Dimitri’s tensed by the motion. Confused.

Claude doesn’t let go.

“You’re not nothing, Dimitri. And while I can’t bring back your loved ones, your crown, or your country, at the very least, I can provide you with a place to go. If you’ll have it, of course. It won’t be easy for you, and you still have plenty of time to decide.”

“Almyra…” Dimitri mumbles, voice a mix of confusion and reverence.

“You realized, then.”

“You weren’t exactly subtle about it,” Dimitri mumbles, and Claude can’t help the rumble of laughter that pools out of him, face still buried in the soft, silly fur of Dimitri’s cloak.

“There’s nothing I can give to you, Claude. Even my strength is failing me, now, and I have no wealth nor goods to offer.”

“You know, Dimitri, in the world of my dreams, _every_ life has worth. And a life’s worth isn’t determined by how strong or smart they are, or how many goods and services they can produce. It isn’t determined by if they have a crest, or if they were born into nobility, or if they were born in Duscur or Dagda or Morfis. Even if you truly had nothing to offer—however wrong that is—your life would still have worth.”

“I…”

“We have pretty good doctors in Almyra, you know. For both the body and the mind,” Claude finishes quietly, forehead bumping gentle against the back of Dimitri’s head. “Not everything can be fixed, of course, but there’s always hope for improvement.”

“I no longer even know what hope is…” Dimitri whispers, shaky left hand settling over Claude’s arms.

“Then I guess we work on that, too.”

For a few moments they just stand in silence, until Claude forces himself to reluctantly step away.

Dimitri’s hand clings for a moment longer, before gently letting go. “What is she like, Claude?”

“Hm?” Claude hums as he reaches for Dalia’s reins.

Dimitri turns to look at him, eye tired, but surprisingly alert. “Almyra.”

Claude can’t help but smile, moving to affectionately stroke Dalia’s flank.

“Like home.”

\--

Edelgard’s death brings about a change in Dimitri.

It’s hard to argue that he’s doing _well_ , exactly, but he’s certainly doing better than before. He’s still quiet and reserved, he still occasionally finds himself conversing with his ghosts, but he’s finally beginning to engage. There’s a presence in his demeanor, in his eye, that Claude hasn’t seen since their academy days.

He still prefers to follow, prefers to allow Claude to call the shots, but he asks questions, now.

And—most amusingly, for Claude—he seems absolutely fascinated by Almyra. It’s extremely cute.

Their days are spent traveling, their nights huddled together around the campfire, nestled under Dimitri’s cloak while Claude answers a curious barrage of questions about Almyra.

“So, everyone knows how to ride wyverns in Almyra?” Dimitri asks one night, when they’re both leaning back against Dalia together, nestled by the fire.

“Basically, yeah,” Claude chuckles, head lolling sleepily against Dimitri’s shoulder. “I remember being told that in Faerghus they learn to hold a sword before they learn to write. It’s the same in Almyra, except we learn to ride a wyvern before we learn how to read. They’re our lifeblood. Our trade, our military—we use wyverns for everything. Heck, the two of us have been together since I was, oh, four or so?” Claude explains, hand reaching out to tiredly stroke Dalia’s side.

“What’s her name?”

“Hm?” Claude mumbles, confused.

“You… you never call her by her name. It’s always beautiful, or sometimes pretty. As wonderful as your nicknames are, I was merely curious as to her real name. Unless one of those is her real name, perhaps…?” Dimitri frowns.

“I… I can’t believe I never bothered telling you her name. It’s been weeks. Months, even,” Claude laughs, shaking his head at himself. “It’s Dalia.”

“Dalia…” Dimitri muses, smiling slightly when the sound of her name causes her head to perk up. “It’s beautiful, just like her.”

“Dalia’s a historical figure in Almyra,” Claude explains happily. “There’s a famous children’s story called _Lady of the Mist_ , and it was my favorite growing up. Dalia is the name of the first-ever female Barbarossa. She was so talented and skilled that she eventually went on to become general, even. But for years she faced the life of an outsider. 200 years ago, a woman being a Barbarossa was absolutely unheard of.

Every day to follow her dream was a fight, because absolutely _no one_ wanted her to be there. They pushed her harder in training, gave her near-impossible tasks to complete, and yet she did it all. She forced them to see her abilities. She forced them not to ignore her. And by being in-their-face, by forcing them to confront their own prejudices, she changed the entire trajectory of the Barbarossa.

People oppose change. They fear the unknown. Yet when forced to face those fears, they learn. They grow. If everyone could just come to terms with their prejudices, could understand the sheer _joy_ that comes from experiencing other cultures and exploring the world, then maybe we could finally move beyond hatred. Beyond senseless war. Both Fodlan and Almyra are so very precious to me, and I’d give everything to see a day where hatred between the two no longer exists.”

“That sounds absolutely wonderful, Claude.”

“I don’t know if I can make it happen, but I want to. I want to _so bad_ ,” Claude sighs, head tilting back against Dimitri’s shoulder, eyes on the sky. It’s a cloudy night.

He wishes he could see the stars.

“If anyone can make that beautiful world a reality it’s you, Claude,” Dimitri says, low voice rumbling against the crown of Claude’s hair.

“Mm, you think so?”

“I know so.”

When Claude drifts off to sleep that night, he swears he can feel the lingering brush of fingers in his hair.

\--

Some days are still bad for Dimitri. But more often than not, they’re good now.

“So Almyra is close with Morfis, then?” Dimitri asks one night by the fire, back to Dalia while Claude happily snuggles up in the cloak, head resting on Dimitri’s leg. It’s an unseasonably warm night; Dimitri finds his cloak too hot, but for Claude it’s all just right.

“Morfis is an island nation, with an excessive amount of desert. They have some mountainous regions, but for the most part their soil isn’t great for raising cattle and other livestock. They can survive a fairly inhospitable location by using their impressive magical technology, but they struggle with producing meats and dairies and furs. In Almyra we’re not the most magically gifted, and without worshipping the goddess of Fodlan, we don’t have the same healing abilities, either. So it made for a perfect match, really. Morfis provides Almyra with technology, both medical and otherwise, while Almyra provides Morfis with meats, cheeses and milks.”

“I feel as though I barely know of Dagda, Brigid and Almyra as is, yet I truly know nothing at all about Morfis. It’s all so fascinating…”

“Morfis is a really neat place. It’s very, very different from both Fodlan and Almyra. And I’d wager it’s drastically different from Brigid, Dagda and Albinea as well. Though I admittedly know almost nothing about Albinea.”

“Albinea makes Faerghus feel downright balmy,” Dimitri says with a small smile.

Claude stares up for a moment, surprised. He hasn’t heard Dimitri joke around since the academy. “You mean there’s a place so cold even the lions freeze?”

“Perhaps Sylvain could learn to tolerate it. But the rest of us? Lionsicles.”

Claude stares.

Dimitri freezes, face beginning to burn.

“Sorry, that was quite sil—"

Claude bursts out laughing. “Lionsicles, Dima? You’re such a dork. An adorable dork, but a dork none-the-less,” Claude teases affectionately, reaching up to ruffle Dimitri’s wild, messy blond hair.

For a moment they just watch another, until Dimitri finally looks away. “I miss them, Claude,” he whispers, voice sad and low.

“Do you… do you know what happened to them?” Claude carefully asks.

“Felix refused to come to Gronder. Said he wouldn’t follow a beast to the slaughter,” Dimitri explains with a sad, wet laugh. “Said it was flagrant animal abuse, that anyone would think to let me near that field.”

“Dimitri…”

“The others, however, I honestly can’t say. Ingrid, Sylvain, Dedue, Annette, Mercedes. They were all with me. But I was so blinded by my rage, by the heat of my revenge. I lost sight of them immediately, and when I came to I… I was in the cave. With you.”

“If Hilda’s alive, then maybe there’s still some hope?” Claude muses, watchful green eyes keen on Dimitri. For Dimitri’s sake, he hopes they are.

“Hope is a dangerous thing, Claude,” Dimitri frowns, eye on their fire.

Claude doesn’t disagree. But hope is also a beautiful thing.

They could both use more of it.

\--

“In Faerghus, it’s called the Lion’s Star,” Dimitri explains one night, as they lay side-by-side in a rolling field at the base of the mountains of Fodlan’s Throat, fire crackling behind them as they gaze up at the brilliant sea of stars. It’s a clear, beautiful night—perfect for their last night in the rolling fields of Goneril.

Tomorrow, Dimitri makes his final decision. If he chooses to go to Almyra, they begin their final ascent come morning. If he chooses to stay in Fodlan, they may never meet again.

“After Loog?” Claude guesses, gaze following Dimitri’s hand as it guides him through the stars.

“Kyphon, actually.”

“Interesting. You’d think it’d be the Lion’s Sword or Shield, if it were named after Kyphon.”

“We use the Lion’s Star for navigation. It’s very bright and easily located, even in a cloudy night’s sky. Kyphon helped guide Loog throughout their lifetime, and thus the star was named after him. The Lion’s Star—the star that would help guide the people of Faerghus to safety.”

“Rather poetic,” Claude can’t help but muse, unable to stop his mind from wandering as he wonders just how close Dimitri’s ancestors were.

“I’m not very good with constellations, if I’m being completely honest, but I do know a few more. Those ten stars over there? They make up my favorite constellation.”

“Really?” Claude asks, surprised that Dimitri even has a favorite constellation. It seems a bit more romantic than he’d have expected.

Dimitri nods, eye still on the sky. “It’s called the Survivor’s Burden.”

Claude’s head immediately shifts to the side, staring at Dimitri.

Dimitri keeps his eye on the sky.

“It’s what they call it in Duscur, anyways. Funnily, I don’t even know its name in Faerghus. But it’s named after an old tale of a young boy, a child soldier, who ended up as the only survivor of a horrific battle. For the rest of his life, people told him how lucky he was to have survived. How blessed by the gods he must have been. Yet, as that young boy turned into a young man, as the years passed by, everyone around him eventually began to forget about that battle. They moved on with their lives. The war ended and the recovery began. And so he alone was shouldered with the weight of that battle, with the burden of all those deaths. One day, he killed himself. He could no longer bare to live in the shadows of his nightmare. It was only then that people realized the true burden of a survivor’s guilt.”

“How morbid...” Claude can’t help but mutter, enraptured by Dimitri’s face as he speaks.

“Dedue taught me about the constellation years ago. He… he’s always had a spirituality to him that he rarely speaks of. But one night, both awoken by nightmares, we ended up on my bedroom balcony. We piled pillows and blankets up high—it was the dead of winter, but we were foolish children then—and spent a few hours watching the sky. I think we both needed to hear it. An acknowledgement that to survive is to suffer. It’s a terrible story, and yet somehow… I find it very cathartic.”

Claude stares, as Dimitri watches the stars. Watches his profile, watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows back tears, watches the watery shine of the moonlight in his good eye.

“Dima…” Claude mumbles, urgency in his voice as Dimitri turns to face him, curious at his tone.

It’s only then that Claude realizes how close they are.

Carefully, Claude reaches out, taking a thick lock of Dimitri’s hair between his fingers.

“Claude…?” Dimitri frowns. He doesn’t pull away.

Claude doesn’t respond.

Instead, he begins twisting Dimitri’s hair, threading it together in silence. It won’t last—not with how silky Dimitri’s hair is and with no way to tie off the end—but it’s a small, intricate braid that Claude could do in his sleep.

“What...?” Dimitri implores, hand reaching up to gently touch the finished braid.

“Braids are an important part of Almyra’s culture. They have all sorts of symbolism and meaning to us. There’s this special braid that began with the Barbarossa, but has since spread out into the mainstream of Almyran culture. We call it a survivor’s braid. It originated through war, but is now worn by anyone who’s survived a near death experience. It’s a sign of grief, but also a sign of strength. Only the strongest, only those who have survived against all odds, wear it.”

“It reminds me of the one you used to wear at the academy…” Dimitri muses, holding the braid carefully between his fingers, eyeing the end of it.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Claude hums with a small, rueful smile.

Dimitri holds his gaze.

It’s hard to read what’s behind that deceptive blue eye, and it’s no wonder Claude’s shocked when Dimitri leans forward to gently press their lips together.

It’s clearly Dimitri’s first kiss, though it’s hardly as though Claude has much more experience to pull from.

It’s a chaste and awkward little thing—as their noses bump, Claude wonders if it’s Dimitri’s poor depth perception at work, or simply inexperience. Either way, it’s cute.

It’s definitely not a world-ending first kiss.

It’s not a kiss that poems will one day be written about, or that scholars will reference, but it makes Claude’s stomach flutter and his chest tighten and his pulse rush with excitement all the same. For a moment they just stay there, Dimitri’s nose brushed up against Claude’s, loosened braid falling between them, breath warm and hot.

And then suddenly Dimitri’s pulling away, apology on his lips.

Claude doesn’t let him run.

Claude’s hand is moving before he can think—can process—firmly grabbing the back of Dimitri’s head and crushing their mouths back together. It’s sloppy and it’s wet and it’s clumsy and it’s _perfect_ , as he uses his other hand to grip Dimitri’s wrist, attempting to tug Dimitri on top of him. He wants to feel that weight above him.

_Needs_ to, even.

Dimitri follows Claude’s lead—as he always seems to, lately—tentatively straddling Claude’s waist, hands on either side of Claude as Claude rests his palms on both sides of Dimitri’s pretty face, trapping him in that kiss.

Claude craves the attention: the touch. Craves the warmth and the heat and the contact and the comfort and the closeness he’s spent a lifetime being deprived of. His rationality flew out the window the second those warm, chapped lips touched his own. He doesn’t want it back.

If Dimitri’s going to start something, Claude’s sure as hell going to make sure he finishes it.

Especially when this might just be their last night together.

Desperation eventually shifts into needy little kisses and then leisurely exploration, as Claude’s right hand slides down Dimitri’s cheek, along the length of his slender neck, and settles on the center of his breast.

Even as skinny as he currently is, Claude can just _feel_ the thick curve of Dimitri’s pectorals beneath the spread of his fingertips. It’s absolutely ridiculous.

He almost regrets buying Dimitri that shirt, now.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Dimitri mumbles in embarrassment, even as he eagerly kisses along the corner of Claude’s mouth, hips grinding down weakly.

He’s clearly trying to hold himself back. Clearly nervous about doing too much, pushing too far. About scaring Claude off—or perhaps even worse, accidentally hurting him.

He doesn’t need to be afraid, though. He doesn’t need to hold back.

Claude will gladly take anything he has to offer.

“Just do what feels natural, Mitya,” Claude sooths, hips pushing up to meet Dimitri’s with a groan. When was the last time he experienced any type of pleasure? When was the last time he felt so warm? So wanted?

His hand moves right, cupping along that firm pectoral, thumb grazing over Dimitri’s nipple.

The gasp against his cheek is sweet and warm, as Dimitri buries his face into the hair of Claude’s temple with a low, needy whine.

Dimitri’s fingers clench desperately into the grass around them, and Claude can’t help but smile as he hears a few strands tear beneath those big hands.

“If anything starts to make you uncomfortable, just let me know and I’ll stop immediately,” Claude whispers, giving Dimitri’s jaw a fond, gentle kiss before trailing his hand lower, settling it along solid abdominals.

“Claude, I…” Dimitri frowns, voice shaky.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” Dimitri snaps, pulling his head back to give Claude a wild, needy look. “I just…” he frowns, eye darting away.

“We only go as far as you’re willing, Dima.”

“But… but what of you, Claude?”

Claude can’t hide his grin, as he leans forward to brush his lips against Dimitri’s ear. “There’s absolutely _nothing_ you could offer that I wouldn’t gladly take, Dima,” Claude whispers as he shifts his thigh between Dimitri’s legs suggestively.

Dimitri’s eye widens, even as a low moan escapes his lips and his hips sink into the grind.

Dimitri’s large. Claude’s seen him naked, of course, but never when hard—never when he’s desperate and needy and so very wanting. Claude can just _feel_ the size of him through his trousers, and gods is it hot.

“Can I touch you, Mitya?” he asks, fingers trailing down that ridiculously taught abdomen, hovering along the waist of Dimitri’s trousers.

“But you’re already—" Dimitri starts, only to pause, realizing what Claude’s suggesting. “ _Oh_.”

Claude can’t stop the laughter bubbling in his throat as he plants a stupidly fond kiss on Dimitri’s jaw. And then another over his eyepatch. And yet another on those dry, chapped lips.

Eventually, he settles on bumping his forehead up against Dimitri’s with an amused smile. “You can always say no. Never, _ever_ feel obligated to do something just because you think I want you to.”

“I’ve never…” Dimitri frowns, as Claude immediately moves to pull his hand away. He’s absolutely not going to pressure Dimitri if he’s not ready.

He stops when Dimitri’s own hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist and holding it there against the firm of his belly. “I… I have never done anything like this before. But that doesn’t mean I do not wish to try,” Dimitri mumbles, face flushed. He can’t meet Claude’s eyes.

“Curious, your princeliness?” Claude asks with a playful waggle of his brow, gently removing his hand from Dimitri’s grip so he can instead slip his calloused fingertips just below that waistband, feeling the first curls of Dimitri’s hair.

“I may have wondered,” Dimitri mumbles, awkwardly clearing his throat, even as his hips shift, attempting to force Claude’s hand lower. “Improper for a prince, I know, but…” 

“Had yourself a little crush back at the academy, hmm?” Claude teases, fingers toying fondly through that warm blond hair, refusing to move further down just yet.

“Perhaps,” Dimitri flushes.

“Awww, that’s adorable,” Claude can’t help but smile.

“I never thought I’d actually be given this chance,” Dimitri whispers, moving to plant a firm, desperate kiss along Claude’s forehead.

Oh.

The image of Dimitri stroking himself in his dorm, legs spread wide, desperately trying to stay quiet, to keep Felix or Sylvain from hearing him as he touches himself to the idea of Claude between his thighs is…

It sure is something.

“ _Damn_ ,” Claude groans at the thought, feeling a needy twitch in his trousers as his hips grind up into Dimitri’s.

Suddenly, he can’t take it anymore. He removes his hand from Dimitri’s pants only to hook both thumbs around that waistband, dragging it down just enough for Dimitri’s erection to bob free between them.

“Claude…” Dimitri moans, shifting his weight to one hand so he can use the other to nervously paw at Claude’s waistband. “I don’t know if I can do this one-handed,” Dimitri half-whines, frowning as he glances down at Claude’s dastardly pants. He looks so sad.

Claude can’t help but laugh. This is the most he’s laughed in months, really. It feels good.

“I think I can give you a hand with that,” Claude snickers, tugging his own pants down to mid-thigh. The night air’s a bit chilly on his hot, clammy skin, but with Dimitri over top of him, he can hardly feel it. He can hardly feel anything at all, really, beyond the shiver in his spine and the excitement in his breast and the thick, building heat in his belly and groin.

Immediately, Dimitri’s hand rests along Claude’s naval, fingertips running gingerly down that line of hair, eventually burying in the upper curls of Claude’s pubic hair, hovering just above Claude’s dick. “It’s so thick up close…” Dimitri mumbles in awe, staring blatantly between Claude’s legs, hand lingering _so_ close, and yet not quite there.

Yet again, Claude can’t hold back his laughter. “Thanks,” he snorts amusedly, even as his flash flushes some at the uh, rather unusual compliment. “Yours isn’t half-bad either, your highness.”

Dimitri’s eye widens. “Was that inappropriate to say? Oh goddess it was, wasn’t it, I’m so sorry Cla—" Claude leans up to crush their lips together, preventing Dimitri from continuing with his deprecation. Brazenly, Claude reaches back to grab both sides of Dimitri’s hips, fingers resting along the curve of that cute ass, dragging their hips together.

The grind is absolutely _intoxicating._

Dimitri lets out a low, whimpering moan against Claude’s lips as his hand is pinned between them, hips moving on instinct, desperately humping against Claude’s groin.

Between the precum and the sweat, they’re already slick when Claude’s hand joins Dimitri’s, moving to drag their palms around the both of them, providing some beautiful friction to roll into.

“C-Claude,” Dimitri chokes out, face burrowing into Claude’s neck as he desperately grinds them together. They could use some oil but that’s far too much effort, as Claude curves his thumb around both their heads, gathering the precum there and using it to further slicken their shafts.

He lets Dimitri set the speed. Utterly pinned as he is beneath Dimitri’s delicious weight, the erratic staccato of Dimitri’s hips is left to guide their tempo, while Claude places fluttery kiss after kiss to the top of Dimitri’s sweat-dampened hair.

As Dimitri’s pace hastens, demanding hips grinding hard and fast, Claude begins to feel as though he’s being eaten alive, trapped in the lion’s den as he is. Dimitri is… he truly is all-consuming. He’s desperate and he’s wild and even with the docility of his face buried in Claude’s neck and hair, there’s a complete primality to him.

If Claude wanted to escape, he doubts Dimitri’d have the mind left to allow it.

He doesn’t want to, though. He’s _exactly_ where he wants to be.

When Dimitri comes, it’s with a guttural moan and a choked mouthful of Claude’s hair, hips still moving with an almost feral intensity as he rides out his orgasm. Dimitri’s so desperate and disoriented Claude’s almost surprised Dimitri doesn’t bite his neck in pure instinct. Doesn’t claim him.

Claude sort of wishes he had.

As Claude finishes himself off with a groan and a few more needy jerks of his hand, he can feel the wetness of tears along his temple, as Dimitri mumbles nearly inaudible apologies. He knows he’s lost control.

“No apologies,” Claude soothes, even as he struggles to catch his own breath, still reeling from the rush of his orgasm. “I already told you; I’ll gladly take anything you have to offer, Mitya.”

Dimitri still won’t look at him. Instead, Dimitri just buries his face deeper into Claude’s neck, body sinking tiredly down on Claude.

It feels a bit like being smothered by an exhausted lion, really, as Claude takes the full force of Dimitri’s weight atop him. It’s both heavy and comforting, Claude thinks, as he removes his hand from between them, attempting to scrub away their seed on the dewy grass surrounding them.

As his heart-rate steadies and the sweat on their skin begins to dry, he lets his cleaner hand drift into Dimitri’s hair, giving it a soothing, fond pet.

With Dimitri’s face still nuzzled away, Claude can’t help but idly glance back up at the stars.

Just behind the mess of Dimitri’s hair, just beyond what’s left of that survivor’s braid, is Claude’s favorite constellation.

_The Lovers._

Quietly, he laughs.

\--

When Claude awakens on what might just be their last morning together, it isn’t to the heat of Dimitri’s body beside him. It isn’t to the feel of those increasingly familiar fingers in his hair, or the warmth of Dimitri’s breath against his cheek.

No, it’s to the screech of metal-on-metal, a sudden cacophony of noise that has Claude, disoriented, scrabbling for his weapon in confusion. As he scrambles around Dalia, knife in hand, he immediately realizes what’s happening.

“Dimitri, STOP!” Claude shouts, watching Areadbhar clash against the thick, metal broadsword.

Initially, Dimitri ignores him, too hyper-focused on battle, too zoned in on his enemy. They’re off in the distance, and Claude knows he won’t make it over there in time to stop someone from being seriously harmed.

Instead, he rolls to his feet, tucking away his knife and grabbing Failnaught and an arrow from his pack, taking aim before firing a warning shot right between the pair of them.

Both men jump back from one another at the same time, as the arrow slices through the air between them, landing in a nearby tree. “I said stop, you two!” Claude shouts again in warning, setting down Failnaught and taking their momentary distraction as an invitation to stalk towards the pair of them.

“Ah, Prince Khalid, finally joining us, I see!” the interloper grins joyously.

“Yeah, yeah, hi to you too, Nader,” Claude groans as he finally makes it over to them.

“Prince…?” Dimitri mumbles, staring in confusion.

“Dimitri, this is Nader, my… retainer. Nader, this is Dimitri—"

“—Blaiddyd, the lost prince of Faerghus. Keeping interesting friends lately, aren’t you, kiddo?”

“Yeah, well, nothing exactly went as planned,” Claude sighs, idly rubbing the back of his head.

“Prince Khalid…” Dimitri mumbles again, brow still furrowed.

“So, how’d you find us?” Claude asks, hand moving to settle on his hips as he ignores Dimitri’s confused look.

“You didn’t make it easy on me, that’s for sure,” Nader chuckles, quietly sheathing his sword. “When word came out of the Alliance that the heir had died, I refused to believe it, especially when no one could even say what happened to the body. Was pretty obvious you were still alive somewhere, lying low. You know full well there’s no point in dying on the battlefield when you can live to fight another day. So, I started tracking you. I figured you’d head towards Almyra, of course, the problem was just figuring out which direction you’d gone. Can’t believe you gave this old general the run around for so long, but once I caught wind of a rather suspicious looking performer wanted for murder, I was able to narrow down where you must be.”

Claude gives Dimitri an unimpressed side-eye.

“Sorry…” Dimitri mumbles, head hanging in embarrassment.

“Well, as you can tell, I got shot down at Gronder Field. While fleeing in hopes of regrouping, I ran into this guy’s body. One thing led to another, and I ended up dragging him along for the ride. Needless to say, we spent a few weeks camping out near the Airmid, until eventually we began the trek towards Fodlan’s Locket, hoping to secure passage to Almyra. Getting home was kind of tricky with a grounded wyvern,” Claude explains easily.

“Both of you to Almyra?” Nader muses, eyeing Dimitri curiously.

“Well, that’s entirely up to him. But if he so chooses, then yes,” Claude nods.

“Are you _sure_ that’s wise, kiddo?”

“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep, so yes, I am,” Claude explains, arms crossing over his chest as he turns his eyes on Dimitri, expectant. “It’s now or never, Dima. I can have Nader figure out transportation to take you back to Faerghus, if that’s what you want. Or you could stay in the Alliance, even. I’m sure accommodations of some kind could be sorted out.”

“I…” Dimitri starts, still looking utterly confused, as his hand clenches nervously around Areadbhar’s handle.

“Mitya…?”

“I… I have no resources to take back to the Kingdom, Claude, and the Empire appears to have already been defeated.”

“The Emperor was killed not long before the Archbishop passed. Your professor’s taking the throne of a United Fodlan, from the looks of it,” Nader explains.

“Truly?” Dimitri stares in surprise.

Nader nods in confirmation.

“So Fodlan has a capable ruler, then. Someone with no allegiance to any of the three former countries. Someone who has rallied the troops behind them and ended a bloody war. Someone truly worthy of the crown.”

“Sounds like it,” Claude smiles. The professor on the throne will make future negotiations and treaties all the more easy. It’s a blessing.

“Then there is truly no need for a king anymore, as there is no longer a Faerghus left to rule,” Dimitri muses.

“It’s your call, Dimitri. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen.”

“Is… is it true that you are a prince, Claude?”

“I may have some royal Almyran blood in me, yes.”

“Then how could I… when we discussed Almyra, I assumed I would perhaps, I don’t know, spend some time acclimating at your home. I didn’t wish to inconvenience you or your family, but… you’re a _prince_ , Claude? Or—Khalid, was it?”

“Claude is just fine, Dimitri. Both names are important to me.”

“I just… how in the world could I just walk in and stay with the royal family of Almyra? It’s improper, for one, and given my station, given the history between our countries, I couldn’t possi—"

“ _Dimitri,_ ” Claude hushes, voice firm as he moves to rest a hand on each of Dimitri’s shoulders. “I will handle the logistics. All that matters is the answer to my next question. Do you want to come with me to Almyra, or not?”

“I-I don’t want to leave you, Claude, but…”

“Yes or no, Dimitri,” Claude asks, gently squeezing Dimitri’s shoulders as he holds that nervous blue eye with a steady gaze of his own.

“ _Yes_ ,” Dimitri whispers.

“Good,” Claude smiles.

Maybe their story isn’t over just yet, then.

\--

“But King Khalid, your suggestions are simply, they’re simply _inconceivable_! Lowering taxes this winter due to a _single_ bad fishing season? It’s madness!”

“A single bad fishing season means a populace that needs to be focusing their limited funds on their own survival, not egregious taxes,” Claude sighs, shifting in his throne. It’s the last audience of the day, and he’s dying to get to lunch already.

“E-Egregious? I’ll have you know that our taxes are essential for running the city! We need them for roads, and to fix the docks! And some of our most famous buildings are in dire need of remodeling!”

“If you want to remodel your private estate, mayor, then do it on your own dime,” Claude drawls irritably. Yes, taxes are important for infrastructure. No, they are not important for the infrastructure of ruler’s homes, especially not during a food shortage.

“Pr-Preposterous! What kind of misbegotten, ineffectual, inept, absolutely _worthless_ king would suggest lowering taxes!? These things are _essential_. Tourists come to my city to take in the glorious architecture, _including_ the mayor’s estate! How _dare_ you suggest that—"

The clang of Areadbhar’s tip hitting the marble flooring of the throne room cuts through the mayor’s blathering like a warm knife through rancid butter. All eyes immediately jerk to the head guard standing at attention on the king’s left flank, his expression cold, icy blue eye narrowing.

The room is silent for a moment, as Claude amusedly watches the ensuing stare down. With how often he’s stuck in meetings and audiences all day now, this is the most entertainment he’s had in weeks.

Claude takes the mayor’s pale pallor and sudden silence as a go ahead. “Are we done here, then?” he asks, giving the man a bored, disinterested look.

“I—" the man starts, but another firm look from a singular cold eye has him freezing in his tracks.

“If you wouldn’t mind escorting out our guest, I believe this means audiences are done for the day,” Claude smiles, gesturing for his other guards to escort the man from the throne room.

Once left alone, Claude rises to his feet, taking a moment to stretch out stiff limbs before turning his attention on Dimitri. “You having fun there, Mitya?” he grins, laughing when Dimitri turns his head away in something reminiscent of a pout.

“He called you worthless…” Dimitri grumbles, hand squeezing around Areadbhar.

“They’ve called me far worse than that, love,” Claude smiles. Dimitri’s still not fluent in Almyran, not yet, but he’s slowly getting there, and eventually he’s going to be able to understand every horrific thing said about his king.

That’ll be fun.

Claude takes a moment to gently raise his left hand to the side of Dimitri’s head, thumb idling affectionately over the gold earring there—the twin to his own—as he urges Dimitri to look up at him.

He gives Dimitri’s forehead a soft kiss the moment their eyes meet, before pulling away, nodding for Dimitri to follow him, their feet moving in lockstep.

“You ready for lunch, Dima?” he asks, as they push open the oversized throne room doors, stepping into the expansive hallway of the royal palace.

Dimitri shrugs. He’s never been much of an eater, really.

“Oh come now, show a little excitement,” Claude teases fondly, hand moving to rest affectionately on Dimitri’s broad shoulder. “I had them make our favorite, you know—chamomile tea and cheesy Verona stew.”

“Chamomile…” Dimitri muses quietly.

“Yup. Probably won’t hit the spot quite like a bouquet’s worth of ‘I’m sorry I killed a man’ flowers, but I think it’ll do just nicely for today,” Claude grins, glancing over at Dimitri with a playful wink.

For once, Dimitri’s smiling.

And it’s absolutely _beautiful_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I just want to thank the fantastic artists I was paired with for the incredible work that they did for this piece. I have no idea what I did to deserve getting paired with all of them, but they're seriously some of the most talented people I've ever met. ANYWAYS, if you aren't already doing so, please give them all a follow over on twitter, and make sure to shower them with all the love they deserve! 
> 
> You can find Bril's twitter [here](https://twitter.com/agikun), and Team Catple's [here](https://twitter.com/catple_art)! Thank you guys so much for everything you did for me!
> 
> I'd also like to thank the mods at the Dimiclaude Big Bang for all their hard work! If you're interested in catching up with all the awesome creations from the rest of the bb participants, you can find the Big Bang twitter [here](https://twitter.com/dimiclaudebb) as well.


End file.
